Turn Left at Sunset
by RuPou
Summary: Kurt Hummel is a wealthy New York fashion designer and notorious recluse following a traumatic assault, known only as The Event, leaving him permanently scarred. Blaine Anderson is a theatre school dropout and struggling piano teacher. From two different social stratums, they collide and fall in love – follow their moments and in-betweens. It's a tale as old as time.
1. Snapshot 1: I Found A Boy

**Snapshot 1: I Found A Boy**

_The First Time Kurt Sees _Him

"Ok, so I'm here. What was so fucking important that I had to leave my quiet Upper East Side penthouse and come to this ridiculous Masquerade Ball?"

Rachel spins on her heel when she hears the familiar musical, lilting trill filter into her ears. Clearly intoxicated, what with her bumbling spin and flushed face, she throws her arms around the slender, pale neck of the tall, sinuous man now in her line of sight.

"Kurtie! It's about time!" Rachel drunkenly shouts over the thumping bass and guitar riffs currently resonating loudly through the humid, smoky air of the ballroom.

Grumbling through an "Oomph!" Kurt, on instinct, wraps his arms around Rachel's waist to close the hug his best friend is so keen on giving him. As annoyed as he'd been with the litany of text messages blowing up his cell phone, he couldn't very well keep up his annoyance, what with Rachel's excited, warm, albeit inebriated, welcome.

Pulling back from Rachel's embrace, Kurt grabs the condensation-slick glass of what he presumes is some fruity cocktail and downs the remnants of it, feeling the hot sugary burn of it slide down his throat. It's only after downing Rachel's drink that his friend seems to finally _see_ him rather than the familiar outline of his visage.

"Oh my god, you look fucking _perfect_ Kurt." Rachel gushes breathily.

Rachel practically preens at the sight of Kurt's Alexander McQueen navy wool tuxedo jacket with black shawl collar, matching slacks, and crisp black button-down, top button undone to expose the pale hollow at the base of his neck. The tuxedo, which he tediously and expertly tailored to his own exact measurements to ensure the perfect fit, enhances the breadth of his shoulder, the taper of his waist and the long, toned lines of his legs.

His mask, a glossy black bat shape adorned with simulated nail heads and studs has been carefully chosen to obscure much of his face – to hide the telltale marks, raised and hideous, that mar his once flawless face from view. Leaving only the stark crystalline blue of his eyes and the thin, pink width of his glossy lips exposed, the mask emboldens his presence: severe, dominating, powerful,_elusive_.

Not to mention, the hand-carved points on either side of the mask make his skillfully coiffed chestnut pompadour look even more impressive. All in all, for assembling the outfit at the last possible minute (Rachel really is the Queen of Bad Timing), he looks good. Damn good. He can already feel eyes on him – curious stares that seek to discover who this darkly elegant and strange newcomer is to the festivities.

Kurt rolls his eyes and points to the bar, signaling to Rachel that wherever this conversation is going it requires another drink – this time without the sugary fruity flavor.

Rachel follows behind; Kurt can feel his friend's eyes watching the swish of his trim hips and the graceful stretching of his long, lean legs as he navigates his way through the maze of meandering revelers.

Rachel is up to something. She only gets that feral gleam in her eye when she's planning on dosing Kurt with some good ole fashioned meddling.

Immediately upon approaching the bar, Kurt flicks his hand to catch the attention of the busty female bartender down the way. He knows that with his sharp jawline, angular nose that turns slightly upward at the end, wide mouth, high cheekbones and creamy porcelain complexion that women tend to find him attractive. Long ago he came to treasure the rare combination of masculine lines and feminine softness of his appearance.

He knows precisely how to wield such a combination. He is used to the lingering gazes, smirks and suggestive gleams but mostly he enjoys the flash of shock and disappointment when they discover he doesn't bat for their team. The headiest part? The women still gaze upon him, want glittering in their eyes, sometimes more intensely, once they discover his preferences.

Then again, this happened years ago, before The Event happened. But he supposes with the mask hiding the permanent aftermath, he may as well take advantage and wield the dusty, nearly forgotten weapons in his arsenal.

The bartender stops in front of Kurt who quickly orders their most expensive pinot noir. Not one for liquor, much less drinking usually, Kurt often resorts to wine should the occasion arise that requires alcohol. The fruity cocktail still hangs warm and heavy in hi stomach, the familiar earthy and spicy taste of the wine saturating his tongue with decadent relief.

He returns his attention to his friend who also with just a quick flick of her hand receives another fruity cocktail from the bartender.

"Okay Rachel Berry. Spill," Kurt demands over the rim of his wine glass.

Rachel, for her part, feigns offense and innocence with well-timed doe eyes, taking a large sip of her drink. "Whatever do you mean, my darling?"

Kurt snickers. Okay, now he _knows_ something is up. Rachel, while possessing a heart of gold beneath all the cold ambition and self-involvement, never speaks so saccharinely sweet unless she wants something.

"Why am I here, Rach? You know I hate these things. It speaks volumes of our friendship that I'm entertaining this – _you._"

Kurt tries to keep his voice calm, even but the scratchy roughness of annoyance thickens his tone making him sound petulant and whiny.

Rachel's grin, shit-eating and wide at its finest, illuminates her face and eyes, "Oh nothing, just_him_."

Almost as if she'd strategically planned it, Rachel turns to point at the man now standing center stage beside a grand piano, fingers delicately ghosting over the ivory keys. Seemingly satisfied with what Kurt presumes is the tuning of the piano, the man turns his eyes to scan the room.

Kurt's breath catches, strangling his throat. He has to mentally remind himself to place his half-empty wine glass on the counter before stepping forward to get a better look at the magnificent man bathed in stage lighting.

Dressed in a deep red single-breasted tuxedo jacket, lapels lined with black piping, the man is – well, he's stunning, quite literally the manifestation of handsome and sexy. The deep red Xs sewn on black panels cinches at the man's waist, acting as guiding beacons to the narrow tapering of his compact frame. A matte black button-up shirt, matching black slacks, and a black satin tie complete the man's suit

The most alluring element of the man's attire is his mask: a Venetian-style black face highlighted with gold and sheet music. It contrasts beautifully with his suit and the olive-tone of his skin. Even with his dark hair gelled into submission he is a wondrous sight to behold.

Kurt's blood boils, flushing his porcelain skin to a rosy pink as he watches the man move about the stage, clearly setting up for something, gaze every once and awhile scanning the packed room.

Suddenly, the fuzzy, blood-fueled pounding of white noise thunders in Kurt's ears for the cacophonous ballroom seems to drift away and like a tunnel all Kurt can see is the man on stage. The man's cherry lips glisten from the unconscious flickering of his tongue, the Velcro of his lips peeling back to reveal a bright, slightly off-center smile. It lights up his face, tugging a string on Kurt's heart that he has long believed frayed and forgotten.

The man is positively beautiful – the most beautiful man Kurt has ever seen.

"Fuck, Rach. Who is _he?" _Kurt forgets his wine, his voice dropping to a husky, heated, desire-laced whisper of a breath.

Kurt feels by instinct rather than sees the satisfied smirk on Rachel's face.

"_He_ is Blaine Anderson. He's the cute pianist NYADA hires occasionally to fill-in for bigger productions, the one I've been telling you about, Kurt. My friend Owen, who is throwing this fancy soiree, hired him as part of the live entertainment for tonight. You like?"

Kurt doesn't miss the upward pitch of too much self-assuredness in Rachel's voice nor does he miss the deepening satisfied smirk on his friend's face. He doesn't even care about that pitch or that smirk because all he can still see is him – _Blaine._

God, even the way his name sounds, _tastes _on Kurt's lips quicken his pulse.

The telltale thrumming warmth of desire settles heavily in Kurt's belly. Blood, swift and sure, rushes south, making him dizzy with its relocation, and pools hot and heavy between his legs. It distinctly reminds Kurt how much he misses the flush, the excitement of seeing a creature so divinely crafted of beauty and that undeniable hint of sultry sexuality. It reminds him of how much he misses the thrill of catching the glimpse of a beautiful man's hip or the slope of his strong shoulders.

He has tricked himself into believing that he's somehow forgotten how much he misses wanting,_craving_ a man rather than just settling for a quick romp with a nameless face (one he procures from an extensive and expensive database) to take the edge off.

No, no he – _Blaine _– is definitely, certainly and unabashedly different.

Blaine's entire body, even several feet from where Kurt stands in the shadows of the low-lit ballroom, vibrates with raw, visceral sexuality. Rather than making him appear garish, it settles around his person like a second skin, outfitting the movement of his muscles with a graceful fluidity that draws an aching moan from deep within Kurt.

"No, I fucking _love_, Rach. Holy shit, I've never seen any man like him. Is he – "

Once more, Kurt feels rather than sees Rachel's reaction – a subtle flinching of her shoulder and a wincing of her eyes.

"Ugh, well I know he's definitely gay but um, he kinda sorta has a boyfriend."

Kurt whips his head so fast to pin Rachel with a furious gaze that Rachel falters in her place next to him. Narrowing his eyes, Kurt seethes, "Are you fucking kidding me right now Rachel? I mean, really, are you? I don't have time for this shit."

He takes a step backwards towards the bar with the intention to toss down some money for his wine and retreat to the comfort of his bathtub and his own wine bottle. Damnit. Fucking shit. He seriously hates when Rachel pulls this kind of crap.

Knowing that Rachel is not purposely out to mess with him or tease him, it still bothers Kurt to waste time salivating over some man he has no intention of having. Something tells Kurt that he can't exactly whip out his checkbook and purchase Blaine, like he has purchased so many others.

Perhaps it's the confident set of his shoulders, or the ease of his brilliant smile, or the way his eyes flash under the stage lights, brimming with alert self-awareness but whatever _it_ is tells Kurt that Blaine is not for sale.

Rachel quickly counters Kurt's progress by softly grabbing his arm, "Hey, no come on Kurt. I'm not kidding you, okay? So yeah, I realize I should've started with the 'he's-off-the-market' factoid but I don't know. You can't live inside your head all the time Kurt, and no judgment here, but your questionable ethics concerning certain purchases have got to stop. I don't know. Maybe I wanted you to remind you that there is…_more_ out there."

Kurt's lips press into a thin line. Rachel's tone drops to that soft, motherly lilt that never ceases to soothe Kurt's frazzled nerves, overactive mind and feel cared for, _protected_ – even if it mostly annoys the ever-loving shit out of him. He is primarily the recipient of such a tone but he never minds; rather, in times like now, it's the exact tone he needs to hear.

"Are you calling me a slut or something?" Kurt lightly teases, breaking the tension between the two with the ease of a sharpened knife slicing through butter.

Rachel's eyes brighten with laughter, "More like a man with the morals of a teenage boy. Seriously, though, Blaine is an amazing singer and musician. Stay. Listen to some music. Get a little drunk. And for God's sake, _relax_ Kurt."

Resigning himself to the fact that he's more than likely not going to win this argument, Kurt merely nods his head and motions for another glass of wine, fully intent to take up Rachel's suggestion of getting a little drunk.

Okay, maybe more than a little because something tells him that longer he watches Blaine he will need the soothing balm effects of the alcohol to suppress the raging inferno currently blazing throughout every inch of his lithe frame.

By the time Blaine exits the stage, Kurt is sufficiently turned on by Blaine's voice and presence on stage. Never in Kurt's life has a man so furiously ignited something so base, so genetically visceral in his body as that slightly off-center smile of Blaine's, the dips and sways of Blaine curving in and curving out body when he loses himself in the flutter of the piano keys, and the heave of Blaine's chest while he moves with, not against, the music. They haven't even made eye contact, let alone conversed, and Kurt is practically ready to push his way through the crowd, box Blaine against a wall and cover the seam of his mouth with a kiss so deep that it sucks the very breath from Blaine's lungs.

At this point, the four glasses of wine he has consumed aren't even taking the edge off, drunk more off the effects of desire for Blaine than the actual alcohol. Deeming the effort futile, he switches to bottled water and accepts the deepening, twisting ball of desire in the pit of his stomach as one that will only increase the longer he stays in the presence of Blaine and his piano.

Near the level of grumpy irritation, Kurt turns to Rachel with every intention of telling her that he really is tired and he needs to go home, to sleep and that yes, he really did have some fun.

But before he can utter a syllable he hears his now extremely champagne-intoxicated friend say, "So it'll be like forty-five before Blaine comes back on stage. He'll be in the crowd. I dare you to at least flirt with him – some innocent flirting never hurt anyone Kurt."

Kurt's eyes narrow. When Rachel drinks, she becomes positively incorrigible and downright mischievous. Not that Kurt minds in this instance because while he realizes it's stupid and overtly problematic, he doesn't need another second of provocation.

With a smirk, he tosses his empty water bottle into Rachel's awaiting hands. Rachel knows precisely what she's done – Kurt can never turn down a dare. Once again, Kurt navigates his way through the crowd with an ease and comfort that seems at odds with his tendency to avoid things like this. He pays no mind to the brushes and barely there jabs from the other people in the ballroom for he espies where Blaine stands, surrounded by a mess of people evidently inebriated and gushing over the talented piano player and singer.

A tall, slender man with the face of a Meerkat and what Kurt can only describe as the smell of Craigslist stands just off to the side. Even with a cavalier glance, Kurt figures him to be the boyfriend. The man looks vaguely familiar when after only a few more seconds and a couple more brushes of people's shoulders Kurt processes his visage: Sebastian Smythe.

Fuck, Blaine's boyfriend is the cute (okay, maybe admittedly, Sebastian has an air of sex appeal, born of privilege and the knowledge he can get whatever he wants, whenever he wants and Kurt can respect that to some degree) guy from the cover of Forbes Magazine – he is one of the wealthiest hedge fund managers in the country, having somehow reappeared on the other side of the economic crisis unscathed and even richer. Kurt pays no mind to the possessive, predatory gleam in Sebastian's eye or how he remains in Blaine's peripheral vision, as if daring someone to approach Blaine without his awareness.

Kurt pays no mind because his undivided attention is on Blaine – _only_ Blaine.

Just as he stops short of the beautiful man he has been ogling for the better part of an hour and a half, the cavalcade of hangers-on disperses leaving only a foot or so between Kurt and Blaine. The air thundering in the chasm between their bodies sparks with electricity, peppering Kurt's exposed skin with feather-soft whispers of need.

Blaine catches Kurt's gaze right then and Kurt feels the whispers of need deepen into heated pants in the most intimate of places. And as the off-center tilt of a smile seamlessly brightens Blaine's face, Kurt honestly believes he reaches climax by the mere electric presence of the compact man.

Kurt nearly forgets the social nicety of introducing himself but quickly recovers just as he clears his throat. Holding out his hand to Blaine, Kurt says just loud enough over the dull roar of the ballroom for Blaine to hear, "I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel. Your performance was breathtaking."

Blaine's eyes, _fuck_, they practically sparkle and glitter under the smoky lights of the ballroom. Kurt's mouth, now painfully dry as a desert, opens just slightly to release the tense breath clogging his throat. It of course doesn't help when Blaine slides his soft – oh wow, so, so very soft and so very broad – hand into Kurt's before speaking.

"Thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Hopefully you're sticking around for the next set? My name's Blaine, by the way," Blaine's voice, smooth yet slightly rough from his performance, chaffs against Kurt's inside in the most delicious ways. Blaine's voice virtually drips with sex.

And Kurt certainly doesn't miss the lilt of hopeful expectation at the end of Blaine's question.

It causes Kurt heart to pitter-patter in his chest and that fuzzy, heady tingling throughout his body as his mind fumbles blindly through the fog in his head. How or where the urging, heavy courage comes from Kurt doesn't know but he presses tiny baby steps forward until he can breathe in the faint hint of Blaine's scent, something peppery and earthy and decidedly _male_.

It is positively divine.

And it only increases the ache in Kurt's chest.

"I wouldn't miss it. Can I be frank with you, Blaine?" Kurt breathily asks.

Blaine cocks his head to the side, his brow furrowing with confusion. For the love of all things holy, Blaine really needs to stop – _just fucking stop_ – licking his lips like that, Kurt internally muses. It's only as Blaine begins to speak that Kurt realizes their hands are still wrapped around one another's and Blaine is making no apparent move to unclasp his hand from Kurt's.

"Yes, of course, please."

Still in that smoothly rough timbre, Blaine's polite tone seems undercut with tremors. Kurt assumes the tremors are more out of confusion than a reaction to what Kurt believes is fraught with dazzlingly hot sexual tension between them. Allowing a dangerous smirk to dance over his lips, Kurt carefully flicks his tongue out over his bottom lip, letting it rest there long enough for Blaine's eyes to ever so carefully drift downwards.

That one slight reaction alone tells Kurt everything he needs to know – Blaine feels_ it_; that charge, the illicit squelching of pretense and coquettishness that seemingly wraps the two of them in a neat little protective bubble against the self-conscious handlings of their better senses.

"My friend dared me to make a pass at you but I'm not one for subtly or asinine pick-up lines so I'm going to cut straight to the chase. I want to kiss you, Blaine. Is that okay with you?" Kurt asks it calmly, infused with a sudden surge of confidence.

Kurt cocks his head just enough to nonverbally signal to Blaine that he has no intention of backing down and when Blaine nervously flicks his eyes to catch sight of Sebastian, Kurt presses another few inches forward. Their hands are still breathtakingly entwined allowing Kurt to pull Blaine gently towards him. Blaine's eyes dart over the canvas of Kurt's masked face in desperate attempts to understand how this interaction started as well as where it might go should he consent to Kurt's proclamation.

Kurt sees the slight, very slight, twinkle of confidence slipping in the corner of Blaine's eyes. Blaine may be fierce and confident but it appears he is not altogether used to strange men coming up to him and stating forthrightly that they wish to kiss him. When Blaine flicks another sideways glance to Sebastian, Kurt leans in closer to Blaine until his mouth hovers near Blaine's, their breaths intermingling when exhaled.

"You can say no, Blaine. But if you consent, I'll make sure he doesn't see anything," Kurt whispers softly, dangerously.

The sound of Blaine's guttural moan nearly sends Kurt over the precipice of abandon.

Okay, now he definitely knows Blaine feels something between them. What exactly, Kurt is not entirely sure but then he feels the slight pulling of his hand and quickly realizes Blaine has spun on his heel and is guiding both of them into a small room behind the stage.

Kurt represses a tiny trill of an excited giggle when Blaine presses his back up against the wall and brings Kurt's body flush against his own. Feeling brave and drunk off the sight of Blaine, lips slightly parted, and that gorgeous sheen of sweat coating the olive-toned skin, Kurt surges forward to capture the mouth that has so entranced him all night but stops just a hair-breadth away when Blaine utters, "I – I don't know why I'm doing this. I have a boyfriend."

Kurt doesn't hesitate, "Because you feel it too, Blaine. That charge, the instinctual pull towards something so magnetic it's undeniable, natural – like _breathing_. I wanted you the second I laid eyes on you so I'm asking you again, is it okay that I kiss you?"

Blaine releases that guttural moan again giving Kurt the only permission he needs. Tilting his head just slightly, he seals his lips over Blaine's.

Desire, unlike anything he's ever felt, floods each nerve ending of Kurt's body with white-hot need. He presses herself forward, wanting to feel every inch of Blaine's shorter, compact body that he can and slips his hands up to cup Blaine's sweat-slicked cheeks. Blaine's response, instantaneous and decisively bold, sends his hands to fist the lapels of Kurt's tuxedo jacket to bring Kurt closer, closer, closer still.

Sliding the tip of his tongue along Blaine's bottom lip, Kurt tests Blaine, silently seeking permission to deepen the already heady kiss. Blaine parts his lips to accept Kurt's offering and as their tongues slide along one another's in a delicious tumble of friction and exploration, Kurt whimpers. The lingering taste of spearmint gum coupled with the slightly bittersweet flavor of leftover wine on Blaine's tongue drives Kurt into a frenzied state of need, need, _need_. He can't get enough of Blaine, craving more of Blaine – his taste, his smell, and God feel of him beneath Kurt's fingertips.

Kurt very nearly takes Blaine right then and there.

Yet Kurt is not the only one pontificating on the notion of total wanton abandon in that small room. Blaine, too, shivers, trembling with the sudden, typhoon-like flood of hunger that radiates throughout every inch of his body – even the ends of his hair burn – _flare_ – with this wild ache for the tall, slender man kissing him breathless.

When Kurt approached him only moments before, Blaine immediately felt the roundhouse kick of electric desire. Through the thickness of Kurt's expertly tailored clothing, Blaine sees the hard, masculine lines of his lithe build and with Kurt's strong jawline, pink mouth, and blue eyes, he is magnetic, ethereal – _otherworldly._ It causes his stomach to swoop just a bit.

Blaine hasn't felt _that_ for a man since before he and Sebastian met (something he still hasn't felt when in Sebastian's presence, even years later). But there is something, well something as natural as breathing as Kurt noted earlier that sparks between them when their eyes met for the first time.

Blaine instantly knows he wants to know Kurt, wants more of him.

What draws Blaine in so dangerously, so precipitously he doesn't know but now that Kurt's soft, wet, pliant mouth works over his own, a branding kiss stripping him of breath, Blaine knows he can't let Kurt just disappear into the crowd.

When Kurt finally breaks contact, Blaine mewls in protest, chasing Kurt's mouth for more, just more. He wants, no _craves_ more – more of Kurt's kiss, more of Kurt's taste (so distinctly spicy from wine and traces of chocolate), more of Kurt's hands on his body, any part of his body. He continues to cling to the lapels of Kurt's tuxedo jacket, not wanting to lose the closeness of their bodies after the smacking unsealing of their lips.

Blaine really has no idea why he is acting like some horny, overly eager teenager who just discovered the pleasures of the flesh because damnit, he is a twenty-year-old man with a boyfriend whom he has been unfailingly loyal. But then Kurt presses another brief kiss to halt Blaine's chase, Blaine forgets all sense and decorum.

Trailing a feather-stop path of kisses along Blaine's jawline, Kurt stops, hovering over Blaine's ear as he whispers teasingly, "I want to lick every inch of your perfect body, kiss you and touch you and fuck you until you're begging for mercy."

Blaine barely manages to breath "Ohmygod" before the already familiar weight of Kurt's body cleaves off from his own and Kurt disappears into the crowd, leaving Blaine breathless and wanting in the small room behind the stage.

It is only later when Blaine is undressing at home that he finds a cream-colored business card stuck into his pocket. He hadn't even realized that Kurt slipped it in when their hips rocked and rolled against one another's during that world-altering kiss.

And it is only before Sebastian turns off the last of the light in their bedroom to shower the room in darkness does Blaine finally, secretly, and consciously read the black typeset words:

_Kurt Hummel_

CEO & Designer_, _Blackbird Designs

New York, New York

(212) 876 – 9305


	2. Snapshot 2: TKO

**One-Shot: TKO**

Through the smoke and haze of the bar (which he consented to go to under the condition that it be smoky, dingy and dimly lit – and the Silverlake Lounge definitely fits those three qualifications), Blaine watches Kurt.

While it seems a bit voyeuristic and even two steps towards stalkerish, he can't peel his eyes away; he is, simply put, transfixed by Kurt, whose lithe toned body is swaying in rhythm with the thumping beats of the in-house band.

Kurt may be dancing with some girls in tragic clothing who more than likely wore to be provocative and alluring but his eyes – his eyes are staring at Blaine, narrowed and hooded and blown dark with what Blaine can only assume is desire, flamed into existence by the sultry heat of the bar and the velvet smoothness of the lead singer's voice. Sweat has accumulated on Kurt's forehead, glimmering in the dim light of the bar but he doesn't seem to notice, so lost in the movement of his body.

Kurt's body continues to move, swaying and gyrating, as his eyes remain on Blaine. Despite his better judgment, Blaine licks his lips, appreciating the sight of Kurt completely loose and relaxed and _uninhibited_.

Kurt looks different like this, different from how Blaine has, up until this very moment, seen Kurt since the beginning of this – well, whatever this is between them, this not quite purchase but not quite complicit, mutual relationship. His hair is looser, still perfectly coiffed, yet short tendrils of his pompadour slip and fall, damp with sweat, along Kurt's forehead. Although Kurt is dressed in a pair of dark jeans, white button-up (he'd since untied his light-gray ascot, letting it drape around his neck to reveal the tantalizing hollow at the base of his neck), there is something dangerously alluring about the painted-on-tightness of his jeans and the way the fabric of his shirt hugs his trim torso and deceptively strong arms.

Sure, Blaine knows that Kurt is gorgeous, even with the jagged scars. But Kurt's real beauty, natural in its delicacy and subtlety, sneaks up on you. Kurt's beauty is in the sound of his laugh, the earned touch of his hand, and the warmth of his open, vulnerable gaze (again, proffered when earned).

But right now, right now Blaine is not cataloguing the charming eccentricities – like his proclivity for settling the table even if they're eating take-out or his absolute refusal to go one night without his complicated, rigorous moisturizing routine; rather Blaine is, instead, for the first time since that night at the masquerade ball, permitting himself to stare, to _ogle_: the toned, impossibly long lines of Kurt's legs, the round curvature of Kurt's ass so obscenely emphasized by those damn jeans, the slight plumpness of Kurt's bottom lip, which he keeps tugging between his teeth in a distinctly teasing manner.

Blaine is noticing the luminescence of Kurt's pale skin, the way Kurt's hips move in synchronized time with the beats of the song, all liquid and sashaying. And really, only Kurt, with only the skin of his neck and his forearms bare, can make such a display seem like total nudity. Before Blaine can consciously recognize the symptoms of want percolating in his veins, heat – sizzling and sharp and wild – settles in the pit of his stomach. With each swivel of Kurt's hips, his eyes burn, bright and hot, as his teeth sink deeper into his bottom lip.

Blaine swallows thickly, wishing for the all the world (and since when did he actually want to initiate such a thing because he hasn't want to initiate anything intimate with Kurt since the masquerade ball, before the damn contract?) to dip his tongue into that hollow, luxuriating in the salty taste of Kurt's skin and to be as far as way from this stupid fucking bar as possible.

This is certainly not what he expected to happen tonight.

In recent months, Blaine has become introduced to a new side of Kurt – open, willfully vulnerable and exposed, safely ensconced in the boundaries of their contract. Now that they are more acquainted with one another (if that's what you can call Kurt's crazy rules and iron-clad stipulations), Kurt seems to laugh quicker and longer and has blossomed, sweetly and passionately, into a man of imperfect perfection. He is talking about Kurt after all, so even as open as he appears, it is still tainted with reservation and careful negotiation.

Yet when Kurt thinks no one is looking, he is a masterpiece of complexity – pure wonderment, realized and actualized through his visceral surrender to the moments unfolding around him, by him. And Blaine has taken to watching Kurt further when Kurt thinks no one is looking.

But tonight – tonight Kurt knows Blaine is looking and is still looking.

And that's, perhaps, what Blaine hasn't expected most of all tonight: for Kurt to _know_, for Kurt to meet and match his watching with equal fervor and intensity.

After a full day's worth of begging Kurt to venture out (because Blaine seriously needed to get out), Blaine grabbed his car keys and ushered Kurt into the car before Kurt could change his mind. He promised Kurt some semblance of anonymity and obscurity so he mindlessly drove to the one place he knew Kurt's appearance would not be deemed unusual or stare-worthy. Kurt grumbled something unintelligible when Blaine managed to find a parking space, something about not being the "bar type" and "seriously Blaine, _Silverlake_? What's next? Skipping arm-in-arm across rainbow painted crosswalks in West Hollywood?

However, something clicked in Kurt the second they stepped into the thriving dive bar. Something seemed to crackle in the air like static electricity and he just – liquefied, sublimating his cool distance into sinuous curiosity.

Thus why they were now halfway to obliterated in Silverlake.

With his scars Kurt blends into the rough, rugged appearance of the other bar patrons yet his clothes, decadently fabulous and clearly designer, eyes follow him, as if trigged like motion detectors but only a few brave individuals approached Kurt to talk and to flirt. Kurt at first declined most offers to dance in favor of going shot-for-shot with Blaine – cheap tequila that saturated Kurt's veins and loosened his tight resolve, giggles and flirtatious retorts sliding easily from his lips three rounds in.

Now two hours later and sufficiently intoxicated, Kurt has since accepted an offer to dance with some guy named Toby, spending much of it in a flurry of light laughter and silly dance moves. But now, now with the music taking a rather heady turn, Kurt slides fluidly into sashaying hips and hotly gyrating movements. And then Kurt hooks his finger and motions for Blaine to join him.

Blaine moves from the shadows by the counter quicker than he'd like to consciously admit. He nods to Toby, who drifts back from Kurt, a knowing smirk quirking the corners of his lips. It really was only a matter of time before Blaine joined Sidney on the dance floor for the other patrons had seen them come in together.

Blaine's hands instinctively find placement on Kurt's hips as Blaine brings his lower body to straddle one of Kurt's long legs, their hips immediately finding a rhythm. Kurt encircles his arms around Blaine's shoulders, the last string of movements to bring their bodies flush against one another.

The music dulls to background noise as both Kurt and Blaine lose themselves in the feeling of sweat and heat and languid muscle. Their breathing is heavy, coming out in puffs and pants, as they continue to move with and against one another. Kinetic energy brews between them, anticipating and need working as an aphrodisiac. They'd only just really found their rhythm when Kurt leans in and whispers breathily into Blaine's ear.

"Follow me."

Turning on his heel, Kurt takes Blaine's hand and leads him through the thick crowd of people on the tiny dance floor. Kurt hadn't intended to lead Blaine off the dance floor. Having overheard that the back alleyway of the bar is a great place for a quick hookup, not overly trafficked and a place well shrouded by large Dumpsters, Kurt shuffled the information into the back of his mind and laughed it off over another round of shots.

But then Kurt started dancing and Blaine started watching. And Kurt started watching in return.

The alcohol coupled with the velvety beats of the band's singer had Kurt's body buzzing, his nerves flaring and igniting with headiness, a potent hit of an increasingly addictive drug. If Kurt is to be totally honest with himself, he remains in a constant state of arousal when in Blaine's presence, senses so thoroughly saturated that he often struggles to breathe.

The longer they spend time together and the more he gets to know _Blaine_, the more his physical attractiveness gives way to intoxicating sexiness, a derivation of an innate beauty that constantly leaves Kurt flummoxed. There exists in Blaine a genuine sense of kindness that proliferates a vast capacity for loyalty and love.

Try as Kurt might, he can't exactly stop the trickling of the crush that sprouted in his limbs, flooding his heart and rising and rising in the cavity of his chest until it is filled with warmth and softness. The knowledge that he and Blaine are not actually together restrains his crush, keeping it reined in and quelled to a point of a dull ache rather than the soaring heat of want-need-now.

Then the other happened.

Then Blaine slid into bed next to Kurt and tiredly confessed that it all – Cooper's medical bills, his parents' refusal to help – feels like so much, _too _much and he just needs…out – at least for a little while and can he please, please, _please_ re-up their contract? This too-much feeling, of course, includes Blaine's relationship with Sebastian and while Blaine, even now, is not altogether proud of his total submission to Kurt, Blaine really can't think of another option.

Kurt is his way out, his ticket to preserving something precious and sacred, even if Cooper doesn't see their relationship as such. Cooper is his brother and damnit, Blaine is going to make sure Cooper receives the absolute best care available to live, to thrive.

With that one confession, everything changed.

With that one confession, cleared of pretense or nuance, Kurt begins to feel the beginning burgeoning of love, sweet and low and deep, coat his nerves, steeping the darkest recesses of his heart. Love is not something Kurt is accustomed to feeling and he can't stop it and he's not entirely sure he wants to stop it.

It is essentially possible that his love would forever remain unrequited because even though Blaine wants to re-up their contract Kurt doesn't really know the reasons _why_ Blaine wants to re-up. He just knows Blaine wants to re-up it, just knows that Blaine came to him, curling around Kurt's body to nuzzle his nose into the curve of Kurt's neck, to seek out more time, more them, more _this. _But Kurt doesn't care about the reasons, whatever they may be, for it is the first time since – well, ever, that the love he feels is good, solid and _his_. There is no one to exploit it, take advantage of it, or abuse it.

It startles Kurt how quickly, how deeply he falls in love with Blaine following Blaine's confession. It opens Kurt up in ways he is still discovering. It straps him to a rack and leaves him exposed and unlike any time before in his life, he didn't so much mind the exposure.

Because loving Blaine, even secretly and from afar, fills a hole in his heart he's long believed will remain unfillable. Loving Blaine finishes the puzzle of his heart; the missing piece that he forced himself to believe was never even missing. It is just simply there and it makes him feel whole, connected – _safe_.

Then again, it shouldn't have startled Kurt how easy it is to fall in love with Blaine; it's part of Blaine's charm, Kurt surmises. Blaine makes everyone fall just a little bit in love with him but the other night Kurt didn't see Blaine Anderson, consummate gentlemen and dreamy piano player.

No, Kurt sees _Blaine_ – insecure, confused, complexly simple and _real_.

So when Blaine suggests that they go out tonight to just get out and blow off some steam, Kurt finds himself acquiescing rather quickly. Of course he acquiesces, Blaine is hard to turn down when he employs those damn puppy-dog eyes and pout, but Kurt acquiesces with his bitchy bouts of petulance.

No with the knowledge of the back alleyway burning Kurt's brain, he silently leads Blaine out the back exit and into the unseasonably chilly night air. He spins on his heel again and with a sly, mischievous smirk he palms Blaine's chest and pushes Blaine backwards until Blaine's back is flush against the brick wall of the bar.

Blaine's eyes widen. He is entirely unsure and wildly confused about what this is all about. Kurt is not impulsive. No, Kurt is almost solely the opposite of impulsive, finding comfort and control in planning, in the meticulous adherence to his impossibly high expectations and standards.

So this, whatever _this_ is, is deliriously confusing.

"Kurt? What – what are – " Blaine gulps, "you doing? Why are we out here?" He manages to ask through the heaviness of intoxication and the suddenly too-hot feel of Kurt's hands on his chest.

Kurt's smirk deepens and his eyes darken further as he whispers, "We're having fun, B. You told me we needed to blow off some steam. So I am."

Kurt trails his hands lower, lower until his fingers hook around Blaine's belt. Blaine gulps again. He knows he should be protesting, doing something, _anything_ to keep this from progressing but he just can't seem to. He can't gather up the words or the forbearance to step back from this moment. Kurt's touch is far too welcome after the time spent watching and dancing.

_Oh God_ – Kurt's hands, delicate and soft yet strong and broad, feel so, so good and the way Kurt's looking at him through hooded, desire-blown eyes, as if Blaine is the only man in the world is too-much in the way of delicious need.

"I um – I'm good. I drank. I danced. So we – we can go back now?"

Blaine really is trying to maintain some semblance of cool, calm and collected but Kurt is still looking up at him through hooded eyes and fluttering eyelashes and that sound – oh holy hell, that sound echoing in his ears is definitely his zipper being undone.

Swallowing thickly, Blaine arches his neck back until his head rests against the wall. He can't take any more of Kurt's direct eye contact – electric and feverish. He can't possibly handle drowning in Kurt's eyes anymore. Because drowning means giving in. Because drowning means surrendering and surrendering means everything shifts, _again_. Because drowning means he wants this with Kurt.

And Blaine's not entirely sure he can handle that. Things are good with Kurt as they are. Things are predictable and they are solid. They are easy and swimmingly pleasant. And because of such, things are invigorating and refreshing and with Kurt, he's breathing again, fresh and full and unencumbered by weight and anxiety and _life_.

And yeah okay, he may have desperately pleaded to re-up the contract between them the other night but in that moment he meant to adhere to the one they'd established so many months ago – the one where Blaine didn't buckle under the careful choreography of Kurt's touch, or feel the fire of Kurt's kiss on his skin or yearn to be with Kurt, heart and soul and body all at once instead of shutting his mind down and letting the physical shell of his body come with pleasure.

Sex with Kurt is about fulfilling his end of the contract, even if he does notice the damn luminescence of Kurt's skin. It is not about the conflation of ravish, relish and reverent.

So why, why on Earth is he not stopping Kurt?

"Did you miss my not-so-subtle innuendo B?" Kurt whispers huskily, the end of his inquiry pitching into a mischievous lilt that tickles Blaine's skin and sends another round of heat, sharp and sizzling, to the pit of Blaine's stomach.

Blaine's mouth is suddenly bone dry and he can't seem to swallow naturally. When he feels Kurt press forwards to lick a wet, hot trail up the side of his neck and Kurt's lips close around the lobe of his ear, lightly biting and tugging, Blaine is sure he can feel every last molecule of Kurt's body.

As in every last fucking millimeter of Blaine's body is _vibrating_, thrumming with the insistent, niggling need burning him from the inside out.

Blaine's palms splay out on the wall behind him. If he touches Kurt, all bets are off. But if he stays just like this, flush against the wall, merely an innocent victim of Kurt's rather pornographic and erotic assault, then he really hasn't crossed a line, has he? Mind you, Blaine's not exactly fighting back or saying no in any capacity but for some reason the twisted logic enables him to keep his wits about him for a moment longer.

So Blaine says, which comes out as more of a whimper than anything else, "I um – I guess so. Kurt, please um – let's go back inside? Dance some more, maybe?"

Okay, that honestly did not come out in the way it sounded in his head.

Kurt leans back just far enough to catch Blaine's eye. And _fuck_, Kurt's fucking pouting, this adorable, sexy little pout that is scorchingly hot and shit if Blaine doesn't just want to take Kurt right then and there. He remembers this – the urgency to take as much of Kurt as he can get, recognizable as the lingering remains of the indescribable thirst he felt pressed against another wall, a mysteriously and handsomely masked Kurt kissing him with reckless abandon.

"But I want to play, Blaine. Don't you want to play with me?"

Kurt whispers this in that husky tone, all low and rough and gravelly and hell, if that's not the hottest fucking thing Blaine's ever heard because in all the other times they've "played" Kurt has never, not once, sounded like this.

How could Blaine deny Kurt anything when Kurt sounds like sex and sin incarnate?

Honestly, if Blaine gives in just this little bit, he wouldn't really be changing things all that much, right? After this, he can just go straight back to keeping his increasing desire for Kurt's kiss, Kurt's touch secret, reined in and clamped down? After this, he can return to his real reasons for re-upping their contract, Cooper's continued medical care without consequence, right?

Right.

Of course Blaine's silent debate with himself doesn't account for Kurt's careful perusal and assessment of Blaine's facial expression. Kurt smirks, victory gleaming in his eyes, and then the too-fast, too-slow action of him sliding to him knees and peering up at Blaine through veiled eyelashes.

Blaine immediately moans. This – oh God, _this_ is what Kurt meant by blowing off steam.

Kurt's fingers are back fumbling with Blaine's belt and zipper until his pants are opened and slung low on his hips; the chilly breeze of the late night air trickles over the exposed skin of his stomach, letting him know that yes, yes this is definitely happening. Kurt is definitely on his knees in the dank, dark, gross back alleyway of a dive bar and peering up at Blaine, that delectable smirk quirking the corner of Kurt's mouth.

Blaine is already half-hard as it is. That much happened back in the bar watching Kurt dance, the discomfort of which only increasing when they danced together. But the sheer weight of anticipation has the blood rushing at breakneck speeds to his groin and he can't stop the twitching of his dick in his boxer-briefs.

Kurt presses forward and trails the tip of his nose along Blaine's length, hardened and aching, through the fabric of his briefs. Blaine whimpers, outright whimpers and Kurt? Kurt chuckles, smugly amused by the responses he's drawing from Blaine without so much as doing anything other than actively teasing.

"For someone who only just a minute ago wanted to return to the dance you, you seem quite…eager for this. Are you eager, B?" Kurt prompts headily.

Blaine moans again, a thick cloying whimper roughed by desperate need, released from the very back of his throat. The whiplash currently fogging his brain about this rapid turn of events leaves him floating aimlessly. This man, sexy and sultry and so deliciously, intoxicatingly in control of his words and actions, is still very much Kurt, but this Kurt, this side of Kurt, is impossibly breathtaking.

He wants this Kurt and in realizing that truth emerges in the strangest of places, he hears himself beg, "Eager, yes, yep, yes, yes, oh God yes Kurt, please, _please_, do something, anything…"

Kurt smirks one more time and before Blaine can even begin to process anything further, his fingers, nimble and expert, slide the hardened length of Blaine from his briefs and slides his mouth down over Blaine in one wet, obscene movement. Blaine is immediately sucked into the white-hot, slick, tightness of Kurt's talented, glorious mouth.

Blaine's hips buck automatically but Kurt seems to predict that for one of his hands move up to hold Blaine's hip firmly in place. The other hand lowers to wrap around Blaine, moving in a counter-rhythm of his mouth. A moan, deep and dangerously low, slips from Blaine's lips while his eyes nearly roll back into his head.

_Ohgodohgodohgod_.

Blaine dares to peer down and flushes with nothing short of rampant desire. Kurt's head bobs in the most delightful of rhythms, his mouth sucking, sucking, _sucking_, taking Blaine in, in, in until the tip of his cock touches the back of Kurt's throat. Kurt moans right then, a light trickle of a moan that hums and vibrates along every inch of sensitive flesh currently encased in the wet hot heat of his mouth.

Kurt's fist continues to work counter to his mouth and by now, Blaine is panting, willfully trying not to buck his hips too fast, too forcefully. Seemingly setting the pace for Blaine, Kurt edges Blaine closer and closer to the precipice of release yet he keeps Blaine teetering on the precipice by sliding off him with a sloppy smacking pop before flattening his tongue and trailing it up the vein on the underside of Blaine length.

Retracting his fist, Kurt returns to sucking, this time a little harder, a little more fervently, saliva pooling in the corners of his mouth. Blaine swears he's never seeing anything more erotic than the sight of Kurt just sucking and taking him with his mouth, pulling half-moan, half-whimpers from the back of his throat over and over again.

"Oh my – oh fuck, _fuck_ Kurt, that feels – oh shit, that feels so fucking good…"

Kurt moans around the length of him again and pulling off with another pop, he grins up Blaine before whispering, "Go ahead, B. Fuck my mouth."

Blaine throws his head back against the wall, not caring that he may have just inadvertently given himself quite a sizeable bump for later because holy _fuck_ – "Oh sweet fucking hell. Kurt, oh my fucking…oh _God_," Blaine growls as Kurt sucks him back into his mouth.

Kurt can feel Blaine trembling with need. He can feel the escalating buildup in Blaine's muscles, tightening and tensing under his touch and his mouth. By accident a few blowjobs earlier, Kurt discovered that there is a certain sensitive patch of flesh just on the underside of Blaine's cock below the head that when Kurt presses the flat of his tongue against it, Blaine bucks involuntarily and his knees shake. So Kurt flattens his tongue and licks – languidly, smoothly, deliberately.

The heat pooling between his own legs is now increasingly hard to ignore but he's enjoying this – bringing about Blaine's pleasure – far too much to worry about his own arousal. There is something decidedly heady and addictive in bringing about someone else's pleasure, about being the one to unravel them completely, loosening their bones to jelly and causing their muscles to tremble and quake.

Blaine's close, Kurt knows Blaine's close so he relaxes his jaw and sheathes his teeth behind his lips. When Blaine feels this, he can no longer restrain himself and needing that release, needing that blazing white-hot explosion of _yesyesyes_, he bucks his hips forward and loses himself in the motions of fucking Kurt's mouth as Kurt directed.

Kurt takes Blaine in as far as he can with each thrust forward and he takes Blaine in earnest, humming every other thrust and it's no more than a handful more that Blaine pants out, "Oh fuck, Kurt I'm gonna…I'm gonna…"

But Kurt doesn't move. He tightens the suction of his mouth around Blaine and with one more thrust and the strategic placement of his fingers against Blaine's perineum, Blaine cries out, the blinding white-hot explosion entirely too much-too much-too much, his knees nearly buckling from the intensity of his orgasm. Blaine spills and spurts into the slick wetness of Kurt's mouth while he continues to suck Blaine through his release.

When Blaine's sufficiently sated, every last inch of him oversensitive from his orgasm, Kurt slips his mouth off before pressing a tender kiss to the wilting head of Blaine's cock, standing up and sweet fucking hell, _licking_ his lips. Blaine is breathless and panting.

Kurt, meanwhile, remains thunderously silent as he readjusts Blaine's jeans, pulling them back up around Blaine's hips, zipping him up and in, and re-buckling his belt. But Kurt doesn't remove his hands; instead he curls her hands around Blaine's hips and nestles his legs in between Blaine's.

Spent and unable to consciously think about what to do next, Blaine reaches up to cup Kurt's face in his hands and brings Kurt forward, capturing Kurt's mouth in a deep kiss. He can taste the remnants of himself on Kurt's lips and tongue as Kurt allows his tongue entrance.

Under the first touch and kiss Blaine has ever initiated, another side of Kurt emerges – pliant, malleable in the wake of Blaine's unconsciously tender response. Kurt merely accepts Blaine's kiss and follows Blaine's lead, a complete role reversal from only moments before where Kurt dictated the pace, the rhythm and the outcome.

Once more, Blaine suffers a bit of whiplash and he can't _not_ pull away from the kiss aching and needing and _wanting_ – everything. He is so fucked. He knows that. To some degree, he's even accepted that following that mind-blowing orgasm but really, he is so totally, royally fucked.

Kurt pulls back with a soft smile, adjusting his clothes. He fastidiously tries to fix his now thoroughly ruined coif, and loosening his expression into that mischievous smirk and hooded gaze, he steps back from Blaine's space.

"See you back inside. Toby still owes me another round," Kurt says melodically, a teasing lilt pitching his remark into groan-worthy territory.

Kurt disappears back into the bar without another word and yes, Blaine is definitely, totally, _royally_ fucked.


	3. Snapshot 3: City of Delusion

**One-Shot: City of Delusion**

"I WANT ALL OF YOU KURT!"

Almost as visibly as Kurt does, Blaine flinches with the sudden upward pitch of his own voice keening through hot, salty tears. Kurt reaches out for him but Blaine throws up his hands, steps away from Kurt. He really can't handle Kurt touching him right now. Even the sharp, brutally painful flash of hurt, thick and heavy, across Kurt's beautiful features does not deter Blaine from maintaining distance.

This is not how he wanted this evening to progress.

Defining his relationship with Kurt as merely platonic is laughable, even now when everything is quickly unraveling, carefully wound thread unspooling faster than either man can stop it. It was supposed to be a night of no interruptions, no phones, no contact with the outside world, just them, just Kurt and Blaine, sinking deeper, deeper and deeper still into the heady darkness of euphoric and natural desire.

It was supposed to be the night where they just _were_, all hard lines and sinuous muscle relaxing into the glide of exploratory and possessive touches, fiery kisses and want, burning want. It was supposed to be a night of reality, fulfilling hypothetical promises and drifting on that constantly churning sea of too much-not enough.

It was supposed to be _their_ night, the night both men would allow themselves to actually reach out and grab what they most wanted in the darkest recesses of their hearts – each other.

But thirty minutes into the finite window of their time together finds them embroiled a bitter battle of wills, expectations and honesty. So many words, so many emotions have been left unsaid up until this point and now Blaine can't bring himself to really care if he says too much, or not enough, or obliterates the line between right and wrong.

He just can't. Not anymore.

Weeks and months of being so close but not nearly close enough has taken its toll on Blaine. He is tired of fighting it, tired of playing cat-and-mouse and dancing around the what-ifs and if-onlys. His sense of propriety and integrity has been worn thin, a shoddy, flimsy transparent film remaining in the wake of perpetual emotional chafing. He just wants. It's all he has energy for anymore.

Kurt reaches out again, a breathy sob-edged "B, please, _please_," rounding out the desperate plea for Blaine to stand still, for Blaine to welcome rather than turn away from his touch. Blaine tries not to let that nickname – _Kurt's_ nickname, a name so intimate and whispered passionately in the darkest of nights that just the sound of it makes Blaine feel like Kurt was making love to him – send him over the precipice.

Kurt's touch is like liquid fire.

It sears and burns and brandishes. It is tender yet rough, sweet yet possessive and it makes Blaine feel _owned_, in the best possible way. Kurt touches with purpose, assured flicks of fingertips, determined caresses and instinctive grips and grasps that often force a soft mewl from Blaine's lips. Kurt's touch is home, that firmament of safety and security that leaves Blaine dizzy with intoxicating addiction. No one has ever touched Blaine the way Kurt touches him and should Kurt actually surrender to the desperate plea in Blaine's whiskey-hazel eyes, Blaine would never surface.

Because this was it.

This is _the_ night – a night of greedy having and tomorrow, tomorrow sees the rise of the sun and the acknowledgement that yes, yes it's finally time to end this chapter, to close this book. But then Kurt arrived at Blaine's West Hollywood apartment without an overnight bag and a thinly veiled excuse of having to return to New York for work.

Cue an explosive reaction, Kurt's frustrated demand, "For fuck's sake B, what do _you_ want?" and the arrival of Blaine's impetuous, petulant answer of "I want all of you Kurt" summates the current chasm between the two men in Blaine's tastefully decorated living room.

Kurt overtly flinches again when Blaine shakes his head resolutely, "No, _no_! You promised Kurt, you fucking _promised_ me. You said – damnit Kurt, you said, you fucking said you wanted this, wanted me! Me, Kurt! Without a stupid fucking contract! This was supposed to be the night – OUR night – to see if it can work!"

Blaine curls his fist up in the cotton of his undershirt over his heart. He bows in on himself, his sobs now dry and heaving. Inching ever closer, Kurt's hand finally grazes down Blaine's arm, a flutter of tentative fingertips along the smooth expanse of olive-toned, flawless skin. Blaine hiccups as he bats Kurt's hand away.

The sharp, sudden inhale of Kurt's breath echoes in the now thunderously quiet living room. Tears, hot and stinging, glisten in Kurt's eyes as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, teeth sinking into the pliant flesh and leaving a bruising red color to the area. Hurt flares vividly around the darkening edges of Kurt's crystalline blue irises. Blaine has never denied his touch before, has never not wanted it, demanded it or sought it out because Kurt doesn't touch often or excessively.

And Blaine knows that.

It's hard for Blaine to not reach out just then, to not slide his hand down Kurt's bare arm until his palm meets Kurt's, their fingers naturally threading through one another's. It's such a simple action, holding hands, but it's always been one of Blaine's favorite things to do. Kurt, unlike most people in Blaine's life, is not tactile, shies away from any form of PDA, platonic or romantic, but that action – hands sewn together, palm against palm, an unconscious swipe of a thumb over knuckles – makes Blaine feel connected, tethered to the gravitational weight Kurt provides.

Often when they did hold hands, Blaine would bring up their clasped hands to press a chaste kiss to the back of Kurt's hand, instantly drawing a soft, almost imperceptible-to-anyone-other-than-Blaine smile across Kurt's lovely lips. A subtle pink flush usually followed that. It's a thing, _their_ thing and now Blaine doesn't even want that, can see his own retreat reflected in blue eyes.

All of this – rejection, retreat, refusal – because Kurt won't let himself actually feel, actually ache enough to just take.

"Oh Blaine, baby I do, I _do_ want you, God you have no idea how much I want you," Kurt reassures in a stumbling mess of syllables.

Blaine scoffs, his face a mask of cold fury and fathomless hurt, "Don't. _Don't_ do that. You're not allowed to do that anymore."

Kurt's brow furrows with confusion, "Do what?"

"Call me baby. I'm not your baby. I never was and I never will be. Just go, okay?" Blaine's words start with definitive resolution but quickly taper into hollow echoes, layered with defeat and betrayal.

Blaine might as well have slapped Kurt; that tone shreds, strip by painful strip, Kurt's heart. Better than anyone, Kurt knows Blaine, knows Blaine's tells and Blaine's myriad idiosyncrasies, knows that Blaine has shut down, shut in on himself and to suddenly come face-to-face with the realization that _he_ made Blaine – bright, effervescent, wonderfully open and earnest Blaine – shut down steals Kurt's breath from his lungs. Blaine is so small, so heartbreakingly diminutive and lost that Kurt curses internally.

He's done this.

He's torn Blaine asunder, cut the rope tethered to the anchor that is their relationship and left Blaine to drift alone, without a life vest. He's left Blaine to sink and that is precisely what Blaine is doing right before Kurt's very eyes – sinking, inch by demonic inch, and disappearing from view, obscured by the impenetrable darkness of abandonment.

Because really, that's what Kurt's doing. He knows he's doing it, abandoning Blaine, abandoning the breathy whispered promises and giggles of newly unfurled want and yes, even love.

"No, please B, please just let me explain, okay? Please Blaine? You have to understand – "

Blaine, whose back was turned to Kurt, spins abruptly on his heel, pinning Kurt beneath a harsh, probing stare as he spats, "Understand what exactly? Understand that this has all been one giant mind fuck? Understand that this has been a game? Understand that I'm just some fucking dupe who believed his own lie? Understand that all those nights, all those hushed phone calls and stolen kisses were what, a detour, an impulsive vacation from your _real_ life? Understand that you had absolutely no fucking intention of wanting me outside your stupid rules and your stupid contract? No, no thanks Kurt – I don't have to understand fucking shit. It's all perfectly fucking clear."

Kurt can't stop the tears now, because Blaine has dropped his guard, dropped that carefully maintained wall in his eyes (which Blaine only employs in the most emotionally trying of circumstances) and lets Kurt see _exactly_ what is broiling beneath the surface. And it hurts, fuck, it hurts so much that Kurt really can't breathe and yes, okay, he wants, he practically aches with want for Blaine – _just_ Blaine, no rules, no contract, nothing but the sweet surrender to just _being_.

"Blaine, please, no, God no, _no_ you're not a dupe. You're not, okay? And this, _you_, weren't a detour or a vacation or anything. I wasn't lying. I wasn't. I promise you. I meant every word, every single fucking word. All those nights, all those hushed phone calls, fuck, all those kisses – they meant something, they _mean_ something, they do, I swear they do. But I – I just. I can't. I can't explain it Blaine. You deserve to know, you deserve to know everything and you deserve to be wanted outside my rules, my contract and I swear, I fucking swear that I do want you. I do. You're more than rules, Blaine, please believe me. I can't stay here – I just. I can't."

Kurt loses steam, his circular, frantic response ending with a resounding defeat. He's not open like Blaine; he's not in possession of conviction like Blaine, not the kind of conviction that straddles the line of faith and hope. Blaine submits, surrenders to the pulsating emotions; Kurt controls them, dictates them, heavy-handed and without regard for any casualties, necessary or otherwise. Blaine reacts, feels everything with his whole body; Kurt clamps down on anything that resembles feeling and stoically strides through the liminal spaces of life.

Even this fight is out of the ordinary for Kurt – a picture of rarity epitomized. Blaine has done this to him, has unwound him and set him spinning like a top. Blaine has made him _feel_ and it's sobering and terrifying and he will not go willingly. He's not ready.

He's not ready, he repeats in his head. He wants Blaine to understand that. He wants Blaine to understand that this has absolutely everything and nothing at all to do with him. It's contradictory, Kurt knows, but as the pieces fall into place, it's the only thing that makes sense. It has everything to do with Blaine because, again, Blaine makes Kurt feel – literally the world's molecules slipping around him like bathwater when Blaine smiles or kisses him, literally each emotion in its purest form in a swelling rush of heat and electricity. It has nothing at all do with Blaine because Kurt is a grown man, responsible for his own choices, his own thoughts and Kurt bends to no one's will, even his own.

But standing here, he just can't. He can't tell Blaine. He can't formulate the word. Doesn't even know how. How do you articulate thoughts that only barely coalesced into something recognizable in your own consciousness? How do you tell a beautiful man who looks at you as if you've hung the sun, moon and stars and kisses you like you're the rain and sunshine he needs to sustain his existence that you're not ready to love him back?

Even though you do. In your own way. In your own twisted, charred kind of way.

Blaine stops Kurt with an upturned palm. Kurt meets Blaine's direct gaze. The wall is back up, carefully repaired and decidedly intact, black and impenetrable and more solid than Kurt can ever remember seeing it. Blaine's shoulders are square, his jaw rigid and his body thrumming with something Kurt can't quite put his finger on.

Blaine has never felt further from Kurt than he does in this moment.

And when Blaine says, quiet but dangerously calm, "You haven't hurt me, Kurt. You've broken me," Kurt realizes that it isn't Blaine that is drifting and sinking, it's he who has drowned.


	4. Snapshot 4: Survivor Face

**One-Shot: Survivor Face**

Fast-forward a month and Blaine's reticence about physical intimacy seems to be in the rear view. But no matter how often he devolves into breathless pleas and raspy moans, Kurt doesn't surrender to the lovely desperation in Blaine's voice. Blaine's insistence that he's ready – mentally, emotionally, and physically –does nothing to assuage Kurt's worry: that _he_ isn't ready. Not that he doesn't want to, because oh wow, does he miss losing himself in the impossibly hot tightness of Blaine's body but Kurt fears, with just a single thrust of his hips, he'll cause the carefully rewound spool to unravel again.

Hurting Blaine is not only _not_ an option but it's also inconceivable.

So Kurt distracts Blaine – expert ministrations, insatiable licks, wandering caresses and heated, hungry kisses. Blaine seems satisfied with his efforts; however, Kurt doesn't miss the slightest tinge of disappointment flicker in the corner of Blaine's whiskey eyes. It rips Kurt's heart out. Each time he comes back to the fear, the fear of pushing too hard, too much; the fear of dissolving every stride Blaine has made, tainting the progress his counselor champions each session, with or without Kurt present; and the fear that their sex life will never quite return to normal, or rather, _their_ version of normal – audacious, fervent, open, trusting, vulnerable, and _safe_.

Kurt reaches his breaking point, finally –

They've somehow lucked into an evening without plans, without arrangements or appointments, without conflicting schedules and they use the time to pack a picnic basket, grab two old blankets, two low-to-the-ground beach chairs and head to one of Blaine's favorite places in LA: the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, to watch a movie under the stars.

One of Blaine's favorite movies is playing – _Pretty In Pink_ – and although the crowd is a little thinner than usual, they find a quiet space of grass tucked away on an outer edge of Fairbanks Lawn. The sun has barely even set when Blaine slips on one of Kurt's old hoodie sweatshirts he'd brought along, adorably letting his fingers peak out of the too-long-for-her sleeves.

Not even a minute into the opening credits, Blaine abandons his beach chair in favor of settling comfortably in between Kurt's long, outstretched legs. Blaine pulls the other blanket from their oversized tote bag and drapes it over their bare legs.

The next half hour proves torturous for Kurt.

Blaine's familiar weight and warmth seeps into Kurt's skin, liquefying in his veins. Blaine shifts in his lap, his Oxford striped shorts not much of a barrier against how hot, how heavy his butt feels pressing down on Kurt's lap. The months of masturbation and hand jobs (which are, in fact, some of the best and most erotic Kurt has ever received in his life, thanks to Blaine's talented hands) work against Kurt.

Kurt is on a hair trigger.

And each shift, no matter how slight, catches just right and he bites back a deepening moan. Even sitting, he feels like he's going to pass out, dizzy and totally dazed from the rapidly increasing blood relocation. Either Blaine is extremely into the movie or he is purposely ignoring his effect on Kurt.

Or, and no – _no_, Blaine is not teasing Kurt, not wiggling his butt just so to rub and rub and rub and now, now – "Oh _God_," Kurt gasps, body involuntarily rippling with spasms because Blaine has slid his hand behind his back, sandwiching it between their bodies in order to cup Kurt through his shorts.

"Fuck, oh shit, fuck, _Blaine_," Kurt whimpers, Blaine's name a heady, breathy exhalation.

Kurt's hips jolt and even though he can't see Blaine's face, he knows Blaine's smirking that stupid, dumb, smug smirk of his, the one he plasters on his face when he knows he has won, when he knows he's gotten the upper hand – in this case, literally.

Blaine squeezes, alternating a deep grip with an even deeper rub. Kurt is practically hyperventilating he's panting so hard…and no, _no_ Kurt. Do not think about the word hard.

Hell, he's basically vibrating he's so spun out and wrecked.

Without warning, Blaine stands up enough to turn, bringing Kurt up with him. Kurt flashes Blaine a confused expression when Blaine motions for him to sit on the ground with his legs stretched out, free from the rigid restraints of the beach chair's unforgiving aluminum and wood arms. Just as quickly, Blaine drapes the blanket around his body like a cape, and unzips his shorts. Kurt's throat constricts, the sight of Blaine, who is so, so incredibly concerned with public image and decorum, sliding his shorts down.

And oh wow – Blaine opted out of his usual boxer-briefs and he is startlingly, brilliantly naked: olive-toned skin hauntingly striking in the pale moonlight, furred strong thighs that Kurt aches to touch, to grab onto, and his cock. Shorter and thicker than Kurt's, it juts outward, reddish-purple and beautifully hard. Kurt's mouth waters at the sight, his default setting when he sees how desperately aroused he makes Blaine.

Using Kurt's shoulders for support, Blaine suggestively slides the front of his body down, mere inches from his face, to settle himself in between Kurt's legs once again. Blaine's legs bracket Kurt's waist, smug and naughty smirk in place.

"Blaine – what? Um, what, what're you doing?"

Blaine brings a finger to Kurt's lips to shush him. Kurt surreptitiously scours the crowd, looking for any form of an interested party. But they are safely tucked into the dark shadows at the back of the lawn. Blaine's fingertips leave an electrifying trail down Kurt's torso from the teasing dance they do over his thin gray V-neck.

He watches with bated breath and quivering lips as Blaine unbuttons his shorts. He basically forgets how to actually breathe when he hears the teeth of his zipper click-click-click as Blaine nimbly works it down.

"These are my favorite." Blaine says, smirk illuminating the conspiratorial delight in her eyes.

"Fuck paying attention to my goddamn boxers Blaine. Just – fuck, _please_," Kurt gasps out, more an annoyed directive than actual begging.

Blaine's brow quirks, "Please what?"

He's clearly amused by Kurt's evident discomfort – discomfort that he has caused, that he has spurned with tortuous rolls of his hips and languid, expert strokes of his hands. Blaine dips two fingers into the opening of Kurt's boxer shorts, and Kurt notices that Blaine's breath comes out wobbly, broken, the near-hyperventilation of this private moment made scandalously public.

"T – touch me, please, I just. I need you to – to touch me," Kurt attempts to demand.

Then he's out, blood-hot bare flesh flushed and hard, and Blaine's hand feels fucking amazing wrapped around him, immediately starting a slow, steady rhythm. Blaine's strokes are anything but tentative. The familiar weight of Kurt in his hand is welcome, needed – and Kurt's achingly throbbing, wanting more friction, desperate for it.

Blaine swipes his thumb over the slit, gathering the bit of pre-come that has accumulated. With widened eyes, disbelieving, Kurt watches, stock-still and pinned in place, Blaine lift his thumb to his mouth to suck the warm fluid from his digit. The moan Kurt wants to release loses itself in the gulp because that is, single-handedly, the hottest, most erotic thing he has ever seen his boyfriend do.

And in public no less.

With a quick lick of his palm, Blaine's hand returns to wrap around Kurt, stroking harshly, purposefully.

Kurt whines and whimpers, "Fuck, oh fuck, Christ Blaine. That feels – so fucking good, baby."

His lips part as his whines and whimpers turn breathy and heavy. Thighs spreading ever so slightly, he arches his hips, somewhat awkwardly and off-kilter, to fuck up into Blaine's tight fist.

Blaine bites his lip to keep from moaning – the sight of Kurt coming undone at his carefully tended to seams has his hunger deepening into ravenous, desperate need.

"You are the single most beautiful man in the world Kurt," Blaine confesses reverently, unable to hold the emotion in any longer. His chest aches with it, now cracked open and viciously raw because he still can make Kurt moan like that – low, throaty, _rough_ and _wrecked_. He can still make Kurt shiver, muscles twitching just from the trail of fingertips. He still can cause Kurt's pupils to dilate, to expand until his crystalline blue eyes are black and hooded, desire and intent radiating from their depths.

With Kurt, under Kurt, above Kurt, at Kurt's side – he still _can_.

Blaine clutches the blanket, hoping for something sturdy, something firm to hold in the building moans, and the firm grasp of his boyfriend's hand does not provide that. Not when Blaine's firm grasp is the element causing the building moans.

"Yes well, um, your beautiful man, oh _fuck_, Jesus. He um – _I_ need you to – to not stop. Don't stop."

And Kurt is the single most beautiful man in the world to Blaine. Especially like this: all flushed skin, dilated pupils, lips swollen from their constant worrying between his teeth, and desperate panting moans.

Blaine can't resist the urge to lean up, bringing his bent knees up to kneel over Kurt's lap, never losing grip of the hard-hot flesh in his hand. He nuzzles the tip of his nose up the side of Kurt's neck and whispers, breath scorching and insistent on Kurt's sweat-slick skin, "You wanna know a secret, baby? No one, I repeat _no one_, has ever fucked me like you do. I can come just from the thought of you inside me, filling me up, making me take every thick, hot, _hard_ inch of you."

Kurt inhales sharply, painfully. Eyes wide and open, he watches Blaine fumble for something and the telltale pop-click of a bottle of lube opening makes Kurt moan, deep and rumbling, before he can stop it. Blaine smirks, rebelliously naughty purpose glinting in the upturned corners of his pouty lips – "I prepped myself before we got here."

Surging forward, Kurt subsumes Blaine's mouth in a wet, hot, devouring kiss. Blaine is a never-ending, one-man tornado of surprises but this – this surprise rips through Kurt's veins, spiking and tumbling in disastrous waves that feel almost too painful to handle. Months of waiting, of wondering if he could get back to this – free, adventurous, spontaneous rounds of dirty, erotic intimacy born of indescribable hunger and unconditional trust – and now it's here, ready and oh dear God, fucking _prepped_ and Kurt can't breathe, can't even let his body do this one involuntary thing because this is Blaine, this is them and really, if they break, if _he_ breaks, then everything has been for naught.

"I – I don't. I can't – I _won't_ hurt you Blaine and – and it's been like an hour since – since we got here," Kurt stammers, protesting and near sobs.

Blaine smoothes his palms along Kurt's jawline, over his cheeks and brings Kurt's mouth to his, a languid drag of lips, sweet and endearing and soothing.

"Make me feel it, baby. Help me remember what it means to feel you, _only_ you."

Retracting his hands, Blaine squirts a generous amount of lube into his palm and coats Kurt's length with it. Kurt hisses at the slight chill of the thick, viscous liquid. Blaine wipes the remainder of the lube on the black and with his free hand, Blaine twists his fingers in Kurt's coiffed hair, not waiting one more second, because he finally has Kurt where he wants him. Using his hand wrapped around Kurt as a guide, Blaine sinks down.

Garbled and strangled, Kurt's sharp, painful inhale releases itself in an exhaled moan – with one decisive move, Blaine sheathes the entire length of Kurt in his body. Instantly, both are overcome with the feeling of Kurt buried deep inside the blazing hot tightness of Blaine's accepting body.

Blaine yanks Kurt's head back, uncomfortably arching Kurt's neck. He withdraws, pulling up, leaving the tip inside, and then plunges himself down again. Kurt's hands scramble to find purchase of something, anything, finding it in the fabric of the hoodie sweatshirt Blaine is still wearing.

The fact that they are only enshrouded by dark shadows and they can be caught at any given moment means nothing to Kurt. Because right now, all that matters is his sexy-as-hell and still-recovering boyfriend – _his_ Blaine – riding him with vigor and blinding lust, eyes wild and unseeing, lost in the blissful haze of pleasure.

Blaine is chasing his orgasm with abandon. Head thrown back, curls loose from its gel-shellacked helmet and mussed, lips worry-bitten and parted, eyes closed, Blaine is the image of beautiful debauchery. Kurt clamps down on his rising orgasm; it really, truly has been too long since he's been inside Blaine, squeezed masterfully by the tight muscles Kurt knows better than his own.

This is not going to last long.

Months of only fingers and tongue have done next to nothing in stretching the walls of Blaine's body, acting as pseudo stand-ins for the length and girth of Kurt's cock. It must be painful but all sense of Blaine's comfort disintegrates the second Kurt looks into Blaine's eyes – urgent, vibrant, desperate, and brazen tenderness wrapped around deferential adulation. Blaine's body is shaking and he's losing control of the angle and rhythm of his gyrations but Kurt lets Blaine go, lets Blaine own the experience and the pace because the very core of Kurt is telling him that Blaine needs this, needs to re-train his synapses to fire upon the impact of _Kurt's_ touch, _Kurt's_ scent, _Kurt's_ physical presence.

Clutching Kurt's hair franticly, Blaine smashes their mouths together, kissing Kurt deep and breathless. He rides Kurt fast, hard and dirty. Kurt merely gives Blaine whatever he's chasing, gives over to Blaine's determination and focus, gives in to letting Blaine use his body as the means and method to clasp the elusive catharsis that has just been out of reach, to clasp it and hold it, demanding it to soak Blaine's wounds in some sort of antiseptic balm, demanding it heal Blaine's broken body from the inside out.

For months Kurt has been ready to fuck his boyfriend senseless, ready for that Technicolor, high-definition climax. But this isn't just a return to their unabashed, insatiable rounds of rough, hotter-than-hell sex; this is something more, something deeper, something therapeutic; this is both the beginning of something new and the end of something old, liberation from the chains of scars and demons. It is the spectacular implosion of Kurt/Blaine/galaxy.

What Kurt isn't ready for, though, is coming inside Blaine, eyes connected and unwavering. What he isn't ready for is how heartbreakingly revelatory it is, to do this thing he has done so many times before because Blaine, fastidiously maniacal about protection, requested he forgo the condom to feel Kurt, to feel every bare inch of Kurt filling her up.

What he isn't ready for is the anxious desire to clutch Blaine's body to hold him close, to spasm and spill inside Blaine, to remain connected like this again because Blaine has taken all the tests, received all the negative results and this – this is Blaine's return, Blaine's homecoming to Kurt in the form of letting Kurt, even after months, paint over the cracked, peeling coat left abandoned by the creator of Blaine's demons, with Kurt, just Kurt.

What he isn't ready for is how profoundly this rocks him, so deep and wide that his pulse stutters, his heart stops for the fraction of a second. What he isn't ready for is Blaine, fingers gripping Kurt's hair and pressing his face into Kurt's collarbone, Kurt's hands still tight fists around bunches of sweatshirt.

With Blaine's heavy, emotionally wracked breathing, his body heaving for regenerative breath, Kurt feels it, _really_ feels it – the depth of this re-marking, or rather, the depth of this new marking and he sobs.

"Oh my God, oh my God. Blaine, baby, oh God – I've missed you, I've missed you _so_ much," Kurt cries into the sweat-slick skin of his boyfriend's neck.

For the first time in nearly seven months, the role of consoler is reversed. Blaine holds him close, so close that to the outside, untrained eye the beginning of Blaine is the ending of Kurt. Kurt hisses, the closeness distinctly reminding him that, although painfully flaccid and oversensitive, he is still inside Blaine.

But no amount of discomfort could sway Kurt from remaining, now more than ever, needing this connection, forged in the binding rings of their fathomless, wondrous faith in the other, in _them_.

"Shh baby, shh. It's okay. It's okay. I've got you. I'm right here. I've got you," Blaine murmurs warmly.

"Just – just God, kiss me B. Kiss me to – to I don't know, keep me here, keep me tethered because – because I…don't. I can't – "

Blaine warmly concedes, subsuming Kurt's mouth in a sweet, gentle press of soft lips. Kurt sighs audibly into the kiss and it's good, so good, like the first few drops of summer rain after a long drought, and he wants more. Wants the torrential downpour, wants the refreshing wash of life and nutrients being replenished by the caressing shower of the clouds opening up and offering rebirth and renewal.

Kurt loses himself in the sensations of it all, his tears slipping between their mouths. Blaine pulls away and tenderly kisses away the tears, leaving Kurt dazed and floating, fighting for breath, fighting to stay just a little longer in this blissful, beautiful liminal space where nothing – _absolutely nothing_ – can reach them.

"I – I…B, I lo – "

A light press of Blaine's fingers to Kurt's lips and Kurt quiets. Both wince, slight flickers of strained discomfort from an extended period time of disjointedly yet perfectly enmeshing their bodies together, as Blaine pulls up and off, to plant his butt on the blanket-covered ground between Kurt's legs. Blaine cups Kurt's face, thumbs delicately stroking Kurt's tear-wet cheekbones.

"Hey, hey. I know, baby, I _know_. And I you. So much. So _fucking_ much it defies words. But more than that, more than all the goddamn stupid bullshit, I _trust_ you Kurt Hummel," Blaine whispers intensely, voice tremulous and raw and painfully open.

Because that's what this is about, isn't it?

Not that Kurt loves Blaine, which he does, infinitely sprawling and deliriously wicked in its depth. Not that Kurt would move heaven and earth should Blaine ever utter a sound. But it's about trust – unconditional, tested and proved, irrationally rational, and battered but resilient trust in another person to hurt your feelings when needed and to pick you up and glue every last chipped, charred, violently chiseled back together, leaving you beautifully, imperfectly perfect.

Kurt wonders when this stopped being about recovery and patching up wounds. He wonders when this stopped being about neatly compartmentalized moments of small victories of intimacy, both emotional and physical, and started being about this – this crazy, wild, chaotic, intense need to demolish one another.

Because that's what they're doing – demolishing one another, bit-by-bit, only to turn around and realize that with the other hand, they can rebuild each other, piece everything back together again in a new mosaic of life, love, happiness, only to do it all over again.

It's unhealthy. It's indescribable. It's fucking terrifying, what with Blaine's assault, Kurt's insufferable need to protect at all costs, regardless of thought or consequence, and their lack of will power to resist surrendering to the all-consuming, fiery, depths of their hunger.

So Kurt waits.

Waits for the crushing blow of _this is not good, this is dangerous and not at all okay_, waits for the surge of revelation to overcome him, pushing him towards the fading Exit sign and yes, that's right, the _fading_ Exit sign and then – shockingly calm and gentle, a revelation: this is love, this is trust, this is them, destroying old versions of themselves as individuals, to rebuild and reclaim, to help polish each other, making them shiny and new and better. Better individuals and a better, more impenetrable partnership. This is them – a give-and-take, a push-and-pull, a union of sharp edges and tight curves.

Blaine is healed. Blaine is revitalized.

Kurt is wrecked. Kurt is repaired.

_They_ are resurrected.


	5. Snapshot 5: They Bring Me To You

**Snapshot 5: They Bring Me To You**

It – _The Event_ – happened on a Tuesday.

What's that saying again? Nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday. Or is that Sunday? Either way, it happened. On a Tuesday. A seemingly innocuous day, really. Just a regular day, a routine day filled with class lectures, a meeting or two and the daily scoops at the Big Gay Ice Cream Shop with Rachel. And it forever altered Kurt's life, permanently and horrifically; a jagged rupture roughly exploded open, scar tissues only beginning to form. The hole would never be closed. It could never be closed.

As deep as the Mariana trench and as wide as the Grand Canyon, nothing short of divine intervention could or would close that fissure, cataclysmically and violently carved down the center of his soul. It left in its wake a constant, bone-deep ache, a simmering intensity that never quite lessens but never entirely increases either. It just remains, a shadowy, nebulous thing that tricks you into believing you've never been without it.

At first, it'd been unbearable, making Kurt want to scream and scratch and claw and dig at his skin to get it out, to wrestle it and rip it out of the molecules of his body. He didn't care about the further marring it would do to his flesh. He didn't care about the pain cutting it out would inevitably cause.

Kurt just wanted it out, out and gone and tossed into the deepest recesses of the universe.

The doctors all reassured him it was normal, this abstract phantom ache, that one day he would simply awake and it would just be – _gone_, gone like it never existed in the first place, gone like it'd never even occurred or possessed his body. But they didn't have to live with it until that day – not today, not yesterday, not tomorrow – came. No amount of medicine, no amount of salves or balms or massages, or herbs – none of it worked, none of it dulled the sensation of it.

It just…remained, stagnant and collecting toxic mold, pungent in its stilled state.

So Kurt learned, over time, over painful seconds and minutes and hours and days, to deal with it, to tolerate its existence, to even find some semblance of solitude in its suffocating presence. It became almost friend-like, a companion that he never even wanted, never imagined yet now can't seem to desire its dissolution or exit. His doctors praised his efforts, complimented him on his ability to _deal_ with…well, all of it. His doctors cited him as a healthy example, a pillar of inner and mental strength, a warrior among survivors.

The joke is on them, though.

Because he's not dealing with it. He's not some shining, sparkly pillar of inner and mental strength. He's not a warrior. A survivor, yes, but no, not a warrior. All of it, the recovery, the one-step-at-a-time, the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, daily grind of living, all of it is just something required, necessary because if he doesn't do any of it, he'll sink, plummet beneath the crashing, violent waves and drown, arms and legs thrashing, thrashing and reaching, reaching for air, just one more breath, _please one more breath_.

It was easy for the doctors, for his array of psychologists, for his family and his friends. It was easy to put under the bright and shiny lights of statistics of victory. It was easy to look at him as the sum total of everything that had gone very, very right as a result of something very, very wrong.

Until he'd had enough and no longer wanted to be the pillar, to be the warrior. He no longer wanted the trite praise, the sort-of empathy. He no longer wanted to live under the blazing microscope of his life now. It gets old. All of the pats on the back. All of the too-quick, hollowly tipped smiles. All of the rushing to help. All of the guiding hands. All of the attention (and to think he once fucking craved attention like a damn drug, God how stupid he'd been in his naiveté and ambition).

It just gets – _old._

So he packed up all the praise, all the pats on the back, all the smiles and guiding, helpings hands and heaved it ingloriously into a mental box, secured it with bitterness and unrelenting color and retreated. The retreat served him better than his old ambition. It served him better than all the tireless trying he did when he'd been infused with optimism and a penchant for dreaming big, for dreaming all his Lima, wide-eyed and innocent dreams.

It built him _Blackbird Designs_.

It built him this deep desire to create something beautiful out of dirt, grime, darkness and violence; it built him this voracious, limitless _need_ to control the uncontrollable. Each success only deepened the need. It only made retreating easier. They – the world-at-large – call him a recluse, some high-fashion version of Howard Hughes. He honestly doesn't mind the comparison; Hughes did, after all, charm Katherine Hepburn and assisted in the resurrection of her flagging career.

Really, if they wanted to inspire sharp criticism of his chosen path, they needed to dig a little deeper than Howard Hughes.

Even ten years after his first major success – to date, his still most inspired creation, worn beautifully by Rachel on her first opening night – they still attempted to get a rise out of him, to invoke some reaction that would cause him to venture out, noticeably so, in the hopes for a _real_ story, full of sensation and buzz. Journalists tend to be shortsighted and stupid. He ventures out. He's a recluse, not agoraphobic.

He _chooses_ to stay inside the comfort of his Upper East Side penthouse. And he just as easily _chooses_ to venture out, usually to the anonymity of Madam Dorian's ultra-discreet, exorbitantly expensive den of desire where he gluts himself on the obscurity of blindfolds, toys and insanely hot men. He even attends some events with Rachel, albeit ones where he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one notice him. Those, though, are few and far between, prompted only after Rachel turns absolute maniacal in her begging and he – well, he can only stand so much begging.

There is a little something called dignity. Something which Rachel carelessly tosses around concerning his personal life.

But being a recluse – it's not all it's cracked up to be. Sure, in his years-long pursuit of ultimate and total withdrawal from the world, he has created one of the hottest, most exclusive fashion lines in the world, worn by singer, actress, and royal alike. And sure, Madam Dorian's is great for satiating his sexual palate but all of it only serves to push aside the truth of the matter.

That on top of that perpetual, constant, bone-deep ache that his retreat into ascetic hiding, there is the silence – fuzzy, muffled, bombastically _loud_ silence, clogging Kurt's head, distancing him even more, even further from the world he so desperately is trying to hold onto through his creations. He never knew silence could be so loud, so brutally thunderous and never-ending until that Tuesday.

The ache, Kurt could now handle through his retreat but the silence?

Some days the silence grew so loud, so large in its depth and breadth that all he could do was curl in on himself, become so small, so painfully diminutive that he swore he could seep into the fibers of his mattress.

It generally caught Kurt off guard, those days, with the too-loud silence, the too-large feeling of being swallowed whole by the blurry edges of its expanse. He heard one time that one could often contemplate silence but never find it. He wanted to punch that idiot because he found it – explosively, forcibly and traumatically. He wanted to un-find it, to give this back, to shirk it off and wake up the following morning blissfully overwhelmed, oversensitive from the over-stigmatization of _sound_.

There was some relief, however – from the ache, from the silence, from all of it.

Thanks to Rachel and her irritating habit of getting him out of his penthouse apartment. Thanks to Rachel and that damned Masquerade Ball.

The Mint, The Troubadour, The Viper Room, The Roxy: all venues where the primarily LA-based, struggling piano player and part-time singer/songwriter Blaine Anderson and his friends play shows. Kurt has been to every show (the joys of having access to a private jet with just a phone call), slinking in and finding a place in the shadows just before Blaine's set and slinking back out, embracing the darkness of late-night city life, once the set ends.

No one would get it. Not really, anyway – if he told them, that is.

How could they? They didn't get the silence. It's logical to conclude that they wouldn't get the relief. How the thrumming vibrations of the bass and drums soothe the ache in Kurt's muscles. How the smooth, gliding silk of Blaine's voice trembles, hovers just above the thunderous silence, somehow slithering in through the static, in part, that will forever linger in Kurt's head. How the dim lighting, packed crowd and clamoring beats that are so loud, so boisterous that Kurt swears he can see them floating in the air as it dissolves the tension. How the hyper-awareness of Blaine in the world, of Blaine's skin seemingly soothes cellular configurations of Kurt's now permanent state.

Being in the shadows, feeling the vibrations move through his limbs and batter against the inside of his chest, beating concurrently with his heart in a bruising tattoo, gives Kurt freedom, gives Kurt solace and a place to just to stop and exist, suspended in and of the world around him. No one stops and stares whilst at a live music show; Kurt is merely one among many, another face in a sea of faces.

But really, if Kurt is being totally honest, he comes to the shows because of _him_ – Blaine.

A single syllable, _Blaine_: a press of lips, a tip of tongue retracting just so to release a subtle exhalation. Six letters that taste and _feel_ on Kurt's tongue, relaxed and stretching just so when the dips and swoops of the letters leave the cavern of his mouth.

A vision of gel-shellacked dark hair, hauntingly evocative eyes that even from across the venue and hidden in the shadows, that Kurt falls, falls, plummets really, into those depths. A mouth, defined by finely plump pillows of succulent pink, lips that quirk, ever so slightly in sly, self-assured smirks only to fold into a delectable, sensuous pout. A neck, a slender column that sweeps downward into a slope of deceptively broad shoulders. A subtly angular jawline that somehow is still delicate, sharp lines softened by flawless skin, which flashes, a beacon to guide a fingertip down, down, down and around and up, up, up the other side.

A trim, tapered waistline, and hips accentuated by the curve of male hips and highlighted by shapely, toned thighs. Those thighs, those hips: slightly protruding and proportionate, dips and hollows and crevices that create a tantalizingly stunning landscape, beckoning to be explored, touched, _discovered_; two hands, just a bit larger, a bit disproportionate but graceful and used with intention and purpose.

A beautiful man, an image of sin and skin, a corporeal manifestation of Kurt's inner most desires, plucked straight out of the fray, want and need and too-much-so-much embodied in the sway of Blaine's hips, the underside curve of her jaw, the shell of Blaine's left ear.

Blaine is breathtakingly beautiful. It makes Kurt ache in long abandoned places, an ache over the other ache, but this one pleasant, an invited warmth that spreads, slow like molasses yet fast like direct hits of summer lightning, brief only in the flash, then followed up the rumbling clap of booming thunder. This new ache that began the night he saw Blaine on another stage, half-hidden by a striking masquerade mask, an ache which alighted something within Kurt that sent him scouring a laundry list of YouTube videos and a desire to see Blaine again, in any capacity.

He'd been reckless by slipping his personal business card in Blaine's pocket and partly relieved when Blaine didn't use it. He didn't know if Blaine recognized his name or if Blaine knew anything about him really but the tick-tock in his chest at the memory of Blaine's mouth on his has Kurt considering the ration of his life to actual _living_.

Unable to actually exorcise the feel of Blaine under his skin, Kurt wonders if his body will ever hit the floor that he is surely falling towards. Ever since that night, he has felt a little bit like a citizen without a passport, like he's been suddenly re-written in some foreign language that only Blaine can translate with his submissive kiss and broad hands.

So Kurt eschews his penthouse apartment in favor of LA venues and did he happen to mention how much he _loathes_ the city of Los Angeles?

So yeah, there's _that_ – and he just finds himself unable to stop returning, over and over and over again.

From the shadows Kurt watches Blaine, memorizing lines and angles, curves and dips, hollows and crevices neatly arranged, neatly organized under and around the canvas of smooth, olive-toned skin. Kurt knows Blaine, knows when the right corner of Blaine's lips quirk up he's feeling particularly sassy; knows that when Blaine smiles, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth and sticking out just so, Blaine feels shy, mutely self-conscious; knows that when Blaine stands feet shoulder-width apart at his keyboard, he needs the equilibrium, the sturdiness of the stage to give in, to surrender to the music and he floats, glides about the surface, above the throbbing epicenter of the crowd.

Kurt watches Blaine, aflame with the heated hyper-awareness of each and every molecule of his own body, relishing in the keen consciousness Kurt attributes to knowing, to _feeling_ Blaine in the air. Blaine's presence is a warm, well-used, well-loved sweater re-discovered in the back of the closest, sliding down and over and fitting in all the right places that have been neglected, abandoned by its absence. Blaine is but a trick of the mind, a long exposure image captured and re-pixelated to high definition.

Blaine is that light at the end of the tunnel, burning bright and hot, combustible star hot, far off in the distance beckoning Kurt forward, onward through the darkness, the roiling masses. And while Kurt will never reach the light, never hold out his hand and touch the glow, it's there, right there and it's steady, consistent, the miraculous oil lamp that continues to burn without any oil.

When it all becomes overwhelming and chaotic, when Kurt can't tamp it down and control it, rein it all in Kurt comes – he comes and he watches, just watches and lets his body sink into the vibrations and loveliness of Blaine's voice and all of it, the ache, the silence, it goes away, evaporates into translucent steam and Kurt can just…_be_.


	6. The Contract

**The Contract**

I, _Blaine Devon Anderson_, do hereby of sound mind consent to Mr. Kurt Hummel's expectations, behaviors, standards, and whims for the proposed length of one year from May 13, 2013 (the date of Cooper Anderson's initial hospitalization). The satisfaction of his wants, desires, and needs are consistent with my desire to repay him for the continued financial assistance for Cooper Anderson's medical care. Until the end of Cooper Anderson's medical care, I will offer him the use of my time, efforts, and abilities as he sees fit.

I ask, in genuine humility, that he treat me with respect, care, and dignity, to ensure my fulfillment of this contract. To achieve this, I have unfettered use of his services – personal, professional, financial, as well as those that I may, in time, request – and to which I can deny or grant at my discretion.

I request of Kurt Hummel, as my benefactor, that he use his power, control and requests to assist me personally, artistically and financially.

In return, I agree:

To meet Mr. Hummel's expectations and standards to the best of my ability

To be available, at any given time, to be Mr. Hummel's public companion and/or private company

To maintain open and honest communication with Mr. Hummel – _always_

To reveal any denials, requests, or permissions without hesitation, embarrassment, or fear of inciting anger, resentment, or punishment

To be open to any acts of "play" (see Appendix A) that Mr. Hummel should desire

To work cooperatively with Mr. Hummel to protect the sanctity of this contract

To be attentive to not only Mr. Hummel's needs and wants but also my own

To respect all pre-determined boundaries, personal and physical, which include but are not limited to Mr. Hummel's private workspace, no overt public displays of affection, and seeking information from any of Mr. Hummel's friends and employees

To, without protest, spend at least half the length of this contract in Manhattan

To confess any disobedience, failings, or trespasses against this contract without fear of any extreme and negative recompense

To never speak of Mr. Hummel without Mr. Hummel's permission or pre-determined statement with any media outlet at any time

I fully understand and accept the above conditions as fair and manageable. I do entreat this contract with lucidity and the realization of what this means – stated and implied. I entreat this of free mind with the understanding that this contract is created in the spirit of mutuality, faith, esteem and care.

Should either of us find that the spirit of this contract is not being satisfied or fulfilled with well-serving intentions or find any manner of this contract burdensome and troublesome, either may amend any aspect with verbal notification to the other. Upon amendment of this contract, each of us understand that the length of the contract is not cancelled, merely altered and will continue until the conclusion: May 13, 2014.

This contract shall serve as the basis for our interactions. I and I alone reserve the right to request a continuation of this contract on or before May 13, 2014.

Blaine D. Anderson May 15, 2013

(Signature of Submitting Party) (Date)

Kurt Hummel May 15, 2013

(Signature of Drafting Party) (Date)

*Appendix A: "Play Time" Stipulations

I, _Blaine Devon Anderson_, do hereby consent to participate in acts of sexual congress as determined by Mr. Kurt E. Hummel. At any point, I reserve the right to refuse or to request changes with verbal or written notification.

I, of free mind, understand that Mr. Hummel participates regularly in D/s Scenes and as such, uses this contract as a request for my complicity in such Scenes. This serves as my permission to engage in such behavior and acts. This contract does not serve as permission for Mr. Hummel's unfettered use of my body at any time but does serve as permission to periodically entertain such acts.

With Mr. Hummel, I have drafted the following conditions and hereby formally accept them with the knowledge that I can, at any time, amend the conditions.

During scenes:

I submit freely to Mr. Hummel

I address Mr. Hummel only as "Sir"

I will obey Sir at all times without question or hesitation

I will accept any punishment Sir deems necessary for any transgression I may have intentionally or unintentionally committed

I understand that my body is at the disposal of Sir and only Sir

I will be completely open and honest about any desires or fantasies of my own to Sir

I will confess any acts of disobedience or failings to Sir

I trust Sir to share pleasure, to be open and honest, and to wield his power compassionately, swiftly, and to ensure satisfaction

I trust Sir to never violate the truth with which I am freely giving and should violation occur will openly notify Sir so he can adjust

I notify Sir with the understanding that I, in no way, will be punished for being honest

I understand that Sir will never ask to put external responsibilities above his own pleasure

Safe Words:

**Red:** Stop – _immediately_

**Yellow:** Slow down

**Green:** Continue or yes

Approved Actions/Behaviors in Scene:

Bondage

Arms

Legs

Wrists and and/or hands

Ankle and/or feet

Light

Heavy

Private

Hair pulling

Immobilization

Nipple play

Orgasm control and denial

Pain – mild to medium

Phone sex

Prostate play

Rimming – giving and receiving

Sensory deprivation

Blindfolding

Gags – cloth and rubber only

Headphones/earplugs

Sex

Anal

Ass cheeks

Oral – giving and receiving

Thighs

Sexual deprivation – short-term

Skype sex

Spanking

Hand

On all fours

Over the knees/bent over

Paddle

Soft Limits:

Anal plugs – only in private

Chest bondage

Chores

Cock rings

Collars – worn only in private

Corsets and/or other dress play

Cuffs – to be worn in public

Forced masturbation

Forced nudism – only in private

Full body bondage

Harnessing – leather only

Having clothing chosen for me

Having food chosen for me

Humiliation – private

Lectures for misbehavior

Restrictive rules on behavior

Scratching – giving and receiving

Sexual deprivation – long term

Speech restrictions – when and what

Swallowing semen

Whipping

Hard Limits:

24/7

Animal roles, including but not limited to human puppy dog, pony play

Beatings/hitting/punching

Boxing/Closeting

Branding

Cages

Caning

Cattle prods

Chains

Cock and ball torture

Cutting

Double penetration

Mouth and anus

Multiple partners

Electricity

Exhibitionism with friends and strangers

Forced eating

Forced nudity

Forced servitude

Genital bondage

Given away to any other Dominant – temporarily or permanently

Hot oils – on genitals

Hot waxing

Humiliation – public

Initiation rites

Knife play

Manacles and irons

Padlocks

Pain – severe

Personality training in Scene and in Real Life

Phone sex – serving Dominant's friends and/or commercial provider

Piercings

Plastic surgery

Prostitution – actual and public pretense

Restraint duration – 3+ hours, including multiple days, overnight or full day

Restraints in public

Rituals

Serving, including but not limited to, as art, ashtray, furniture, maid, waiter

Serving other Dominants or Submissives

Sex

Giving and Receiving: other men and women

Oral: giving and receiving – other men and women

Spanking

Belt/straps

Crops

Floggers

Spitting

Standing in corners

Straight jackets

Stocks/Pillory

Suspension – upright, inverted, horizontal

Swapping with other partners and/or couples

Swinging

Threesome

Water torture

Waxing

Weight gain or loss

Other Stipulations:

Both Mr. Hummel and I possess the right to refuse acts of sexual congress for any given reason without fear of judgment or resentment

Both Mr. Hummel and I possess the right to stop any acts of sexual congress at any point without fear of judgment or resentment

Both Mr. Hummel and I vow to exclusively engage in acts of sexual congress with one another.

Both Mr. Hummel and I agree to periodically undergo requisite health check-ups

Some acts of sexual congress may include D/s elements but are not exclusively D/s Scenes

Sexual acts will only occur within the walls of Mr. Hummel's New York residence, my West Hollywood residence, as well as other pre-approved locations following any requests

Additional signatures of both Mr. Hummel and myself, dated May 15, 2013:

Blaine D. Anderson

Kurt Hummel


	7. Snapshot 6: Prison Is Private Property

**Snapshot 6: Prison Is Private Property**

"Hey Rachel, what're these?"

Rachel spins around from where she stands by the counter to see what Blaine is referencing. In his hands, Blaine holds a stack of papers, a haphazard collection of notebook pages, scraps of paper, sticky notes stuck to random pieces of construction paper.

After a sip from her water bottle, Rachel motions for Blaine to spread the stack of paper over the countertop, her fingers automatically dancing, hovering just over the surface, eyes reading the neat handwriting and artful, elegant drawings. Words, some individual, some hooked and woven into fragments, sentences, others wrapped around scrawling shapes and doodles of clothing.

She picks one up, one of the full notebook pages, _…caught somewhere between rapturous and reverent, lips—pink, succulent, just on this side of plump—slide effortlessly, slyly into a pout, teeth sink into flesh, a nervous, self-conscious habit, self-consciously aware of his own skin, his own self-consciousness, slipping, surrendering to the dance of his own molecules, flesh hot and searing and sweaty_ scrawled beneath the sketch of a dark-gray slim fit tuxedo jacket, thin contrasting lapels, chest pocket, two front pockets with flaps, adorning buttons on the cuffs and a vented back.

"They're Kurt's. He um – he writes and sketches, a lot. Compulsively so. His – his doctors say it's an um, it's some sort of coping mechanism, making sense of the nonsensical. He keeps paper with him all the time but he um, he's usually extremely fastidious about keeping these locked in his workspace. He very rarely ever lets people see this stuff. Where'd you find these?" Rachel explains quietly, eyes still dancing over words and sketches.

Blaine looks back down at the pieces of scattered paper, eyes peering at the chaotic mess of words and shapes like it's the first time, like he's finally seeing it all, fresh and painfully, tragically beautiful. Drawn, almost magnetically so, to a pastel pink Post-It note attached to a ripped notebook page, Blaine picks it up, the paper smudged and wrinkled and rumpled – _rasp, rough: velvet on silk, stretched and taut, smoky-sweet; tongue, rebellious and wanton, darting, slicing, wet-slick over the seal, Velcro undone just so_ and the sketch of a vintage-style black motorcycle jacket with a zippered front, snap band collar, quilted stitching, and two lower inset pockets.

The words and accompanying sketches read like observations, keen, careful glances, darting over an image, memorizations scrawled down to remain, to cement themselves into existence. Deliberate yet scattered, the words and sketches indicate pieces, single items spread out and over to be plucked and manipulated, to be appreciated or puzzled over. They are plot points, warps and wefts of a visual and mental tapestry, chaos made organized around the complex themes of a person's heart, soul, _mind_.

"The bathroom, believe it or not," Blaine answers gently.

Rachel chuckles lightly, "Not surprised. Kurt, he likes the vibrations of the jets in the tub. He's the only person I know that draws a bath but doesn't actually get _in_ the bath. I have, on more than one occasion, found him asleep on the floor by the tub. It's actually kind of adorable."

Another note, this time a scrap of paper, a torn corner of an old electric bill: _a folding in, a deep, smooth bow into surrender, in and in and in and in, a satin curve of flushed skin_ next to a rough sketch of a dark green bow tie decorated with flecks of gold and music notes.

"All of these," Blaine begins, voice hushed and low, a whisper, awed and appreciative, "all of these, they're like snapshots, pieces of a montage or something. They're beautiful. Who are they about? Because they're clearly written about someone."

Rachel opens her mouth to say something, closes it and thinks, thinks about deflecting this question, the innocently probing, inquisitive question, thinks about sidestepping and sashaying around Blaine's round eyes, curious glint widening his pupils. While random strays of thoughts and ideas floating around Kurt's head, hidden and obscured and floating up, up, up into consciousness, unbidden and stuck in gray matter until pens hits paper, they are indeed representative of Kurt's state of mind. Representative of how he makes sense of the world now, locked inside the thunderous, often self-imposed silence of his head; they are hints, tantalizing hints of the person Kurt is now, has been and is working towards.

Controlling the controllable and the uncontrollable, a teetering seesaw that bobbles but eventually balances – that's what these pieces of paper are, what they indicate.

"You," Rachel responds without thinking any more about it.

Blaine deserves to know. Rachel tries not to let herself feel the full weight of betrayal because that is, essentially, what she's doing right now, betraying Kurt's trust, Kurt's conditional confidence. In the two months since Kurt and Blaine started this strange thing of theirs, Kurt has made extensive strides in revealing faint traces of the Kurt Rachel knew before The Event, each small victory a step towards reclaiming his life, reclaiming the desire to actually _live_ his life and not merely exist in it.

But Blaine does deserve to know.

Yet Rachel realizes too late that she probably should have given Blaine more context because now Blaine is looking at her, all wide eyes and searching, searching and scandalized and worriedly alarmed. Beneath that though, a warm glow, barely working itself into life, but there nonetheless, a warm glow of delight, of submitting, ever so partially, to the heady, potent intoxication of being desired, wanted, _known_.

"Me?" Blaine inquires briskly.

"Kurt, he's not some weird pervert, Blaine. He just – he needs to hold onto something sturdy, familiar. He thinks in words and fashion, always has to some degree, and aside from liking the way you sing and play the piano, he finds you, well, beautiful Blaine. Kurt is a designer by trade. He notices lines and curves and you honey? You _own_ everything you wear – like some sort of second skin. To a designer, that's money in the bank," Rachel responds, a soft smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Blaine falls back from the counter, world shifting beneath his feet. He knew even bringing these to Rachel, asking questions violated the contract he shares with Kurt but the words, the sketches were so beautiful, so jarringly evocative that he just – he _had_ to ask. But this answer?

It demolishes him. In a manner that is both unexpected and wholly violent. Nerves firing, muscles tensing, breath coming in quick succession, he knows the signs of an impending panic attack and attempts to clamp it down. It's one thing to know that Kurt wants him, desires him. It's something else entirely to be Kurt's inspiration, to be the one thing Kurt finds stable and consistent and dependable. It's something else entirely to _want_ to be that.

Under Rachel's intense, watchful gaze (and really, the woman has an uncanny knack for looking deliberately and knowingly), Blaine struggles to control his breathing. He really does not want to fall apart in front of Rachel Berry.

She seems to know this so she says sweetly, "Can you really blame him, Blaine darling? If you were straight, I'd be all over you."

Blaine chuckles, "Flattery will get you everywhere, Rachel Berry." And then, "Thanks, you know, for that. I just – Kurt would never tell me any of that and I don't – I don't really know how I feel about it."

"Eh, it's no big deal. Kurt's never been a big one for sharing and well, after Chandler and The Event, he basically never shares – with anyone, including me." Rachel comments lightly, almost dismissively, words tumbling out before she consciously realizes she's really saying anything at all.

"Wait. Chandler? The Event? What're you talking about? Does this have to something to do with the scars on Kurt's face?"

_Shit. Fuck_. Okay. Because seriously. What. The. Actual. Fuck. Rachel? Blaine's face, awash with overwrought confusion, reflects Rachel's wide eyes and frantic, shit, fuck, damnit all to hell expression. She shouldn't have said that. She can't believe she actually did say that. She never slipped, not once, ever.

Hell, she prides herself on her ability not to talk, not to ever slip. She is discreet, damnit. Fiendishly, feverishly discreet (well at least when it comes to Kurt anyway but honestly, she's not nearly as bad as Tina). It's why Kurt trusts her, why she's the only one that knows the truth. About The Event. About everything.

But she'd been careless just now, not particularly paying attention to her surroundings, to what Blaine actually said and the intention behind the words. She answered out of sheer habit, a reflex learned over time. How to get out of this? How to divert focus?

With a quick assessment of Blaine's wide, probing eyes and stern expression, Rachel realizes she can't divert it. Blaine is a quick study, adept at reading through bullshit and superficial attempts to dissuade, to curb the topic of conversation. She slipped and now she must face the consequences.

"Oh um – Chandler? Well he. He's Kurt's ex, Blaine." Rachel responds slowly, testing the weight and feel of the single syllables of her reply.

Deeper confusion roots itself in between Blaine's brows. His eyes scour Rachel's face, searching, searching for anything, even the most miniscule of tells because this doesn't make sense. He steps back towards Rachel and the counter, feeling like if he doesn't, he'll lose the open pathway Rachel suddenly unblocked. Whatever is about to be said, to be revealed, Blaine feels deep in the fabric of his cells that it's heavy, heavy and burdensome and impossible to grasp.

"You only answered one of my questions Rachel," Blaine sternly states. "What is The Event? Does it have something to do with Kurt's scars? Does it have something to do with Chandler?"

Rachel abandons her visual dance of Kurt's words, Kurt's sketches that litter the countertop and stiffens the posture of her shoulders, straight and rigid and one hand gripping the edge of the counter for support. Kurt will surely chastise her for her slip, will surely slink off to his workspace, sink into his pencils and sketchpads, the sound of some Broadway musical soundtrack echoing throughout the apartment for the umpteenth time.

Rachel inhales deep, exhales a steadying breath, "You may be a little too young to remember this fully, but do you happen to remember hearing about the gay bashing attack about ten years ago?"

Blaine frowns, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest, "Rachel, I was ten, ten years ago. I may be gay but at the age of ten I barely understood what the word gay meant, let alone remember or understand the complexities of homophobic attacks."

Palms lifted in defense, Rachel speaks quietly, "You're right. I apologize."

"So what gives Rachel?"

"Chandler does have something to do with the scars on Kurt's face."

Blaine grows increasingly frustrated with Rachel's vague, veiled responses. He can't get too mad because she is answering his questions. Yet she's doing so partly so, which only serves to actually make him angry.

"I don't – " Blaine inhales deeply before continuing, "I don't understand Rachel. How does Chandler have something to do with Kurt's scars?"

"Chandler caused them," Rachel whispers, voice strained and tight, eyes glassy and wet from unshed tears.

Blaine stumbles backwards, slides into one of the kitchen table chairs, steady in its absent-mindedness, hands nervously clenching and unclenching on the tops of his denim-clad thighs. He'd been right. This is heavy, more weight than he anticipated. Perhaps too much weight yet with just a passing glance he knows it's not the whole story. There's more. It's in the stiffness of Rachel's shoulders, the set of her jaw. It's in the tight clench of Rachel's muscles, pulled taut by the tension of the truth.

"Holy fuck. That um—I still, I don't," Blaine fumbles to find purchase of his thoughts.

But Rachel infers, reading between the scribbled lines of Blaine's fumbling words, "Chandler and Kurt went on a few dates. Kurt, he um – he broke things off because he found Chandler forward, too intense. But Chandler? He just – he grew obsessed, eerily so. Kurt is," Rachel licks her lips, wetting the dry, parched flesh, "he is my best friend, Blaine. But he can be – difficult and he didn't handle Chandler's continued advances well. He threw myriad dalliances in Chandler's face, humiliated Chandler publicly, more than once."

"Your point Rachel?" Blaine prompts tentatively.

"That upon seeing Kurt with another guy, Chandler reacted. By taking away Kurt's most treasured possession: his control, particularly the control he holds over his appearance."

Blaine swallows thickly. Tears, hot and burning, sting in the corners of his eyes, salty and wet and hot, so hot in his sockets. His breath catches in his throat, chokes him, pulverizes him while his mind races, attempting to process and understand.

"How did he cause the scars?"

Blaine has an idea, some slippery sort-of grainy pixilation. It flickers on the backs of his eyelids, flashes in the rugged crags of his consciousness. He just needs Rachel to reply, to strike with the last decisive blow to smelt the assumption into solidification.

"He tossed acid in Kurt's face," Rachel affirms solemnly. "It – it wasn't a lot, just enough to do permanent damage. He spent months undergoing plastic surgery to repair the damage but you see it. Kurt will never be rid of the damage. Some of the acid – it even got in Kurt's ear, caused some hearing loss."

Blaine exhales slowly. Running his hands over his face, he gives in, totally and completely, to the onrush of surprise, of heart wrenching shock, of tenuous understanding, of abstract, irrational anger. It's that – the last one, irrational anger on behalf of Kurt, of what Kurt's lost, that continues to bombard Blaine's veins, clench his muscles. Sure, he doesn't know Kurt the way Rachel did, the way any of Kurt's friends and family did, but Blaine did know Kurt: a flirty smile, flashing mischievous eyes, and fierceness underlined by whiplash-like intelligent wit and retorts.

Kurt is a force, an invisible series of gravitational pulls. One can't help but find Kurt intriguing in his eccentric idiosyncrasies and various facial expressions. So yes, yes Blaine is angry, more than irrationally so, because now, now he is being told that that person he'd come to know is a crude creation, born of random violence and fermented in the netherworld of traumatic injury.

Later whilst seeking comfort in the tickle of ivory keys, Blaine finds one more Post-It note, this time without any accompanying sketch, pressed to the confirmation of a flight purchased an hour prior: _My prison. My property. Until I deem otherwise, I no longer require your services_.

The anger returns because maybe, Blaine does know after all.

6


End file.
